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Copyright, 1885, 
by Harper <& Brothers 


November 12, 188G 


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TWO LOYES 


Q[ Sale of ilje llU'st Kiiing 

BY 

y 

AMELIA E. BAKU 

V> 

AUTHOR OF “the last of the macallistkrs” etc. 


Copyright, 1886, by Harper & Brothers 


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BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


CHAPTER I. 


LOVER OR BROTHER? 


“ With cylinder and beam, 

And fine conducting skill, 

Torture the straitened steam 
To work thy reasoned will. 

“ Then, ’mid thy workshop’s dusty din, 
Where Titan steam hath sway, 
Croon to thyself a song within, 

Or pour the lusty lay.” 



Prof. Blackie. 


“ Their love in early infancy began, 

And rose as childhood ripened into man.” 


Success is the one thing forever good — that success which 
is the reward of the self-helpful and the persevering ; and stand- 
ing in Burley Mill, Jonathan Burley was not inclined to under- 
rate either his own merits or the reward they had brought him. 
The “ clickity-clackity ! clickity -clackity !” of the looms, the 
“ whirr-r-r-ing” of the belts and drums, and the “ hum-m-m-ing” 
of the great engine in the regions below, were the noblest of 
music in his ears. For Burley was proud of his mill, and 
rather inclined to consider it as the veritable and final cause of 
sheep and iron. Were there not men on Australian plains, and 
Tartar steppes, and American prairies, and English hill-sides, 
whose sole care was the wool which supplied his constantly 
craving machines? 


2 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


The dusty daylight was loaded with a thousand subtle odors 
of oil and wool and dyes; and the sunshine fell upon hundreds 
of webs, many-colored and bright-tinted, soft and glossy as silk, 
beautiful with curious devices and borders and reliefs. It fell 
also upon hundreds of “ hands,” some of them ordinary enough, 
slipshod both as to mind and body ; others bright, handsome, 
alert, and tull of intelligence. The best workers, almost with- 
out exception, were women — rosy-cheeked Yorkshire girls — or 
the more intellectual Lancashire “ hand,” with her wonderful 
gray eyes, long-fringed, bewitching, and full of feeling. The 
men had less individuality, and the long, blue checked pinafore 
and cloth cap, which all alike wore, still further increased their 
uniformity. 

Each worker attended to two looms, and most of them were 
singing as they watched the shuttles glide swiftly between the 
webs, and the wefts slowly welding themselves to the warps, and 
growing into soft merinos and lustrous alpacas. Burley, standing 
within the door of the long weaving-room, saw everything with a 
comprehensive eye. He was fond of singing, and he listened with 
pleasure to the clear, throstle-like warbling of a girl in some 
solo part, and the stirring chorus lifted by twenty voices around 
her. It was a favorite hymn of his, and it touched him some- 
what ; he had no objection to hear its triumphant strains min- 
gling with the clicking of the machinery and the clack of the 
wayward shuttles; he knew well that men and women who 
sing at their labor put a good heart into it. 

Nature has made many fine fellows in her time, and she meant 
Jonathan Burley for one of them. He had a grand physique, 
good mental abilities, and a spiritual nature of quick and lofty 
sympathies. But when the passion of fortune -making gets 
hold of a man, it robs, in greater or less degree, all his faculties. 
So, though the hymn touched some sentiment far nobler than 
wool, it was wool that was in all his thoughts as his eyes wan- 
dered down the long room. 

lie had his hands in his pockets; but the attitude did not 
give him that air of indolent unconcern it gives to many men ; 


LOVER OR BROTHER? 


3 


an observer would have been quite sure that he was only finger- 
ing- his gold as a stimulus to some calculation of profit and loss. 
It was strange that the process should have been going on even 
while he noted each loom, and let the melody of the hymn 
sink into his consciousness; but it was, and Ben Ilolden, his 
chief overseer, when he entered knew it. 

“ Burley, thou lied better close wi’ Dixon for them yarns 
afore he lets them go to somebody else.” 

“ He’s welcome to let them go to anybody but me, at that 
figure.” 

“ If thou hed thy wits about thee thou would take ’em.” 

“ Ben, thou doesn’t know iverytliing. It might be wit to 
take ’em, but it will be wisdom to let ’em alone. It’s a varry 
queer thing thou will meddle i’ my affairs but even while 
uttering the half complaint, he put his hand on Ben’s shoulder 
and went out with him. They stood on the stone steps a few 
minutes talking very earnestly, the overlooker, in his long, 
checked pinafore and cloth cap, making a strong contrast to 
the master in handsome broadcloth and fine linen. And the 
subject of their conversation was singular, considering the place 
and business relations of the two men. 

“Burley,” said Ben Ilolden, “thou liesn’t been to thy class- 
meeting in five weeks.” 

“ And I’ll not be there to-night, Ben.” 

“My word ! but God hes a deal to do wi’ some folks before 
he can get ’em to do right.” 

“ Why, thou knows I’m a bit bothered about my daughter 
Eleanor and Anthony Aske. They don’t get on as well as might 
be, and I’m none going to fetch my family troubles to t’ class- 
meeting. Not I.” 

“ Nay, I niver heard tell of it before. It sounds varry like 
uncommon nonsense. Eleanor’s nobbut a child ; it’s a queer 
thing if Aske is letting her dispute with him already.” 

“ Ben, thou art a bachelor. Little thou knows of women ; and 
there’s no use in telling thee how they do manage men in these 
days. St. Paul himself would niver hev believed it, niver !” 


4 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


Then Burley walked away. There had been no profession 
of friendship, no ceremony at parting, but the whole tone and 
attitude of the two men towards each other indicated a sincere 
affection and perfect confidence. For the inequality between 
them was more artificial than real. Both had been born in the 
same small moor-side village, and they had shared together their 
boyish griefs and joys. Both had begun life in the same mill. 
Burley had married a rich wife, made money, and became a 
large mill-owner and a wealthy man. Holden had enough and 
to spare; and if he had not been as successful in business he 
had given his spare time to study, and become a favorite local 
preacher and class-leader. So, if Burley was master in the mill, 
Holden was in higher things the master’s teacher. Each in his 
capacity spoke plain words to the other, but their mutual attach- 
ment was as true and warm as in the days when they had trudged 
hand in hand to hard work, and shared their scanty meals. 

The mention of his daughter’s name changed the whole ex- 
pression of Jonathan’s face, and as he climbed the steps to an 
upper weaving-room it grew dark with anger. 

“ Let him, if he dares,” he muttered ; “ he’ll hev more than 
a lass to fight with if he does.” Then he opened a door, and 
looked down the rows of ponderous Jacquard looms with their 
dangling yellow “ harness,” and their silent, patient weavers. 
One loom was not working, but at another, not far from it, a 
very handsome woman was busily engaged. She did not look 
up as Jonathan entered, but she was aware of his entrance, and 
her face flushed as he approached her. For a moment he watch- 
ed the different threads of the “ harness” rising and falling as 
if to a tune ; then he said, softly, “ Thy brother is away again, 
Sarah ; now what wilt thou do about it ?” 

“ I can’t tell, master, till t’ time comes, then I’ll do my duty, 
whatever it may be. Hev patience a bit longer wi’ him.” 

“ Then it’s for thy sake, I can tell thee that.” She made a 
slight negative motion of her head, and bent her face resolute- 
ly over the leaves and flowers growing with every motion of 
the shuttle. 


LOVER OR BROTHER? 


5 


Jonathan then paused at the empty loom. The work in 
progress was of a beautiful and intricate design, and evidently 
the labor of a master-hand. He admired it heartily, and catch- 
ing Sarah’s glance watching him, he nodded back to her his 
approval of it. As he left the room he looked once more at 
her, and most men would have done the same. Not, perhaps, 
because of the perfect oval of her face, or of the charm of her 
large, lustrous gray eyes ; but because such a loving, noble soul 
looked forth from them that one forgot whether the body was 
there or not. 

There was an old tie between Sarah Benson and her master — 
one which she probably knew nothing of. But Jonathan re- 
membered that he had loved the girl’s mother, that he had car- 
ried her dinner-can, and gone with her to chapel, and tended the 
looms next hers, for two happy years. And he knew now that 
Sarah was very dear to him, though he had never suspected the 
love until it had become a part of his daily life and dearest hopes. 

For when Sarah first entered his mill she was only a child 
ten years old, and many changes had taken place since. Jona- 
than, then on the road to fortune, had achieved success, and 
the only child that his wife left him had been recently married 
to Anthony Aske, the young squire of Aske Ilall, and one of 
the richest binded proprietors in the county. Her fortune and 
future were provided for, and Jonathan, yet in the prime of 
life, a handsome man whose career was assured, hoped now to 
realize with the woman he loved the domestic happiness which 
had been his dream thirty years before. 

But in all our hopes there is generally some “ why ” or “ if.” 
Sarah did not look at life through the same eyes as Jonathan. 
She loved with her whole soul a brother, who relied upon her 
almost as he would have relied upon a mother. And this youth 
had just those qualities which attach women with passionate 
strength to their possessor. Handsome, gay, full of beautiful, 
impossible dreams, quite dependent upon her care and fore- 
thought for every daily comfort, she yet loved him all the bet- 
ter for his faults and his weakness. 


G 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


True, when he chose to work, few workmen could compete 
with Steve Benson. The loveliest designs grew under his fin- 
gers, and he had an equal facility in their execution. But he 
hated any employment which “ chopped his days into hours 
and minutes,” and above all things he hated the confinement 
and noise and smell of the mill. 

The trouble with Steve was one which ruins many a promis- 
ing life. Nature had made him to live with her, and to do his 
life’s duty in some of her free, open-air workshops ; and igno- 
rance -and untoward circumstances had tethered him to a Jac- 
quard loom in a noisy mill. Sarah dimly understood something 
of this mistake ; but thirty years ago women were not accus- 
tomed to analyze life and its conditions. They took it as it 
came, and thought it enough to follow their catechism and “do 
their duty in that state of life into which it hath pleased God 
to call them.” 

At six o’clock Sarah had reached the little cottage which she 
called “ home.” It consisted only of three rooms, one down- 
stairs and two smaller ones above it; but it was beautifully 
clean and very well furnished. The flag floor was as white as 
water and pipe-clay could make it ; the steel fender shone and 
glinted in the pleasant blaze of the fire; there was a home- 
made hearth-rug, large and thick and many-colored, before it ; 
and a little round table set with cups and saucers of a gay pat- 
tern ; the kettle simmered upon the hob, and Sarah was kneel- 
ing before the fire toasting some slices of bread, when the door 
opened, and a laughing, handsome, dusty fellow entered. 

“ My word, Sarah ! but I am tired and thirsty and hungry. 
Eh, lass ! but I’ve bed such a jolly tramp of it.” 

“ Wheriver hes thou been, my lad ? Burley was rare put 
out to find thy loom idle.” 

The last word was broken in two by a kiss, and ere Steve 
let her face slip from his hands he stroked affectionately the 
smooth bands of black hair above it. 

“ Been ? Why, I’ve been all through Elsham woods, and 
down to t’ varry sea-sands ; and look ’ee here, my lass !” Then 


LOVER OR BROTHER? 


V 


he emptied his pockets on the rug beside her — shells and in- 
sects and weeds, and all sorts of curious things. 

She could not say a cross word to him — he looked so happy, 
so perfectly satisfied with his day’s doings. He passed over 
her remark about his loom as if it was a subject not worth 
speaking about, and began a vivid description of all he had seen 
and heard. She brought him a basin of water and soap, and a 
towel, and while he spattered and splashed, he was telling her, in 
interrupted sentences and with broken laughs, all his adventures. 

“There is no tea like thine, Sarah, and no toast either, dear 
lass and when he had drained the pot and emptied the plate, 
she made him more, and still listened, with apparent. interest, 
to his talk, though her thoughts towards the end of the meal 
were wandering far from Elsham woods and the sea-side. After 
it was over and the house-place tidied, she went to her room to 
consult with her own heart. What was to be done with this 
loving, charming lad, who could neglect his work, and spend a 
whole day gathering shells and weeds, seemingly quite uncon- 
scious that he was doing wrong ? She had allowed Steve to 
pursue his own way so long, and yet she was aware that it con- 
tained elements of disaster which at some time would be be- 
yond control. 

This night, in spite of her apparent content, a question she 
had long put aside presented itself peremptorily for answer. 
“ This road ” or “ that road,” which was it to be ? She did not 
distrust her own judgment, and she was a woman who, amid 
many counsellors, would be very likely to follow her own judg- 
ment; yet she wanted some one to advise her to do what she 
had already determined on. 

She put on her best dress and bonnet and went down-stairs. 
Steve was sitting in the chimney-corner, serenely smoking a 
long clay pipe. On the table at his elbow there was a jar of 
tobacco, his violin, and his specimens. Ilis face beamed with 
the luxury of anticipated pleasure, yet as soon as he saw that 
Sarah was going out he said, “ Wait a bit, Sarah ; I’m none too 
tired to walk wi’ thee.” 


8 BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 

“Nay, I won’t hev thee, Steve. I’m going by mysen to- 
night, lad.” 

His nature was too easy and careless to ask “ Where ?” He 
laid down his pipe and took up his violin, and as she went up 
the street, she heard him playing “ The Bonnie House o’ Airlie.” 
In some subtle way the strains made an unpleasant impres- 
sion on her, and she walked rapidly onward, never stopping 
until she reached a quarter of the town where there were 
no mills, but many squares and terraces of comfortable houses. 
She unfastened the gate of one set in a small garden, and went 
in. The main path was lined with hollyhocks of every color, 
and as she lingered to admire them, the front door opened, and 
an old lady called her. 

“ Sarah Benson, I saw you coming. Walk in.” 

“ Nay ; but I was going round, Mrs. Allison. Is t’ preacher 
in?” 

“ Yes, he is. in. There is nothing wrong, I hope, Sarah ?” 

“Nay, I hope not. I want to tell him summat, that’s all.” 

“ Well, then, he is in his study. Go to him.” 

It was not quite so easy to tell the preacher her trouble as 
she had thought it would be. She hesitated so much that he 
said, “Sarah, you must be candid with me. I can’t advise you 
upon half-lights. What is wrong with Steve?” 

“ He won’t stick to his loom, sir, and he’s that fond o’ ram- 
bling about t’ country-side that he might as well hev no home at 
all, and I’m feared Master Burley will lose patience wi’ him and 
turn him off, and there’s no telling then what will be to do.” 

“ Well, Sarah?” 

“The master, sir, he likes me, and he has spoken words that 
I might listen to if I knew what to do about Steve.” 

“Do you mean me to understand that Jonathan Burley has 
asked you to marry him ?” 

“ To be sure I mean that. I am a decent lass, sir, and he 
would say no wrong word to me.” 

“You would be a very rich woman, Sarah, and could do 
deal of good.” 


a 


LOVER OR BROTHER? 


9 


“ Bat not to Steve ; there is no love between Steve and Burley. 

If I married Burley, Steve would go, and I know not where to. 
He would niver have bite, nor sup, nor day’s work from him ; 
and Burley would fret none if he thought I was rid o’ the charge 
o’ Steve !” 

“ And you think Steve needs you ? Is that it ?” 

“I’m sure that Steve needs me. There’s nobody loves him 
but me. I keep a home for him to come to when he’s tired 
out ; and if I didn’t listen to his fiddling, and his tales o’ all 
he’s seen and read, why he’d varry soon find public-houses where 
he and his fiddle would be more than welcome. I’m sure o’ 
that, sir.” 

“You are very likely right, Sarah. Now, do you love Jona- 
than Burley?” 

“Nay, I think not. I know nothing about love; but it seems 
to me I hev no heart for any one but Steve.” 

“ Then if you are the good girl I take you to be, Sarah, you . 
will not marry a man you do not love, and you will stand by a 
brother you do love just as long as he needs your help to keep 
him out of sin and danger. Steve is not a bad lad; the things 
he likes are good things if he does not neglect his duty for 
them. Go home and do the best you can to keep him right.” 

“Thank you, sir; I will do that for sure, I will.” 

As she went home, she bought a slice of ham for Steve’s 
supper; and as he ate it, she talked to him of his rambles and 
his specimens until he was in his very happiest humor. Then 
she told him how Burley had admired his work, and somehow 
made him feel that it would not be very hard to go back to it 
in the morning. 

“ And, Steve,” she added, “ suppose thee and me join t’ build- 
ing society, and buy our own cottage. Then thou could hev a 
bit o’ garden and grow all t’ flowers in it thou likes best. If 
thou will only stick to thy loom, it will be varry easy work, lad, 
and I’m sure there will be no one as will hev a finer garden than 
thee.” 

This idea charmed Steve. He declared he would work every 


10 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


day, he would work over-hours for it ; and in the glow of this 
new hope he went to bed. Sarah, also, was full of rest and 
confidence, and as she went about her common household tasks, 
Steve heard her cheerfully singing, 

“ 0 Lord, how happy is the time, 

When in thy love I rest ; 

When from my weariness I climb, 

E’en to thy tender breast. 

“ And, anywhere or everywhere, 

So that I do thy will, 

And do my life’s work heartily, 

I shall be happy still.” 

For, after all, there was in Sarah’s heart a sense of disappoint- 
ment, and a consciousness of resignation to some duty, which 
she had set before her own interest and pleasure. She had 
said, truly enough, that Steve was dearest of all to her ; and 
yet, if — if — she would not think of the “ifs” at all; still, no 
woman, perhaps, ever resigned the prospect of wealth, honor, 
and a true affection without some lingering looks backward. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE BEGINNING OF STRIFE. 

“ Alas ! how light a cause may move 
Dissension between hearts that love.” 

“ 0 woman ! in our hours of ease, 

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 

And variable as the shade 

By the light quivering aspen made.” 

“ Like as a father pitieth his children.” 

“Jonathan, dost ta understand what I want thee to do to- 
night ?” 

“Thou made it plain enough for an infant-school. Thou 
wants me to come to the class-meeting, and I tell thee I can’t 
do it.” 

“ Thou lies been as unrestful as a shuttle in t’ sheath lately. 
Whativer is the matter, then ?” 

“ I may tell thee that I hev heard Aslce isn’t as kind to my 
daughter as he ought to be, and I’m bound to find out whether 
he’s doing right by her or not.” 

“ Stay at home and t’ news will find thee. I niver knew any 
good come o’ melling between a man and his wife. Women 
take a deal o’ training, Jonathan. You can’t make a good wife 
by putting a gold ring on her finger, any more than you can 
make a good joiner by buying him a box of tools.” 

“ I’d speak about something I understood, if I was thee, 
Ben Iloldcn. Women are a bit beyond thee.” 

Jonathan was standing by his harnessed gig as he talked ; 
and as soon as he had given his friend this bit of advice, he 
drove out of the big gates and took the straight road to his 


12 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


home. There were few rich men in the county who had a 
more beautiful home. Burley House was no spick-and-span 
new dwelling, gorgeous with paint and gilding and gay uphol- 
stery. It was a fine pile of solid stone, that had been a favorite 
residence of the Somers family for centuries. It stood in the 
midst of a wooded park, and before it was a fair, old-fashioned 
garden, smelling of all the scents of Paradise. When Jonathan 
bought the place, people expected that he would be proud to 
continue the old name, and to call himself Burley of Somers 
Court. But he had rather resented the expectation. “ It is not 
Somers Court now,” he said ; “ it belongs to me, and it is Bur- 
ley House for the future. The Somers have been wasters, and 
drinkers, and dicers, and I won’t call my home after their name. 
Why should I ?” 

He drove rapidly until he entered the park ; then he walked 
the horse under the great elms, and let his thoughts wander 
back to the village — back to the beautiful woman who had be- 
come so dear to his heart. The brooding darkness on his brow 
cleared as he remembered the light and peace of Sarah’s face ; 
and when he lifted his eyes to his many-windowed, stately home, 
he thought of her as its mistress, and felt that his life without 
the hope would be a very sombre one indeed. 

As he entered the door his daughter came slowly forward to 
meet him. She was an exceedingly lovely woman ; tall, radi- 
antly fair, exquisitely formed, and with a swaying, easy grace 
in all her movements that was very attractive. She had on a 
long, flowing dress of violet satin, and many ornaments of 
gleaming gold. As she walked slowly down the dim hall, the 
amber light of its stained windows falling all over her, she 
made a picture so fair that Jonathan paused to look at her. 
His heart was swelling with affection and pride as he took her 
hands and stooped forward to kiss her lifted face. 

But he saw trouble in it, even with his first glance; and as 
soon as they were in the closed parlor she began to complain 
of her husband’s indifference and tyranny. “You are father 
and mother both,” she sobbed, with her arms around his neck ; 


THE BEGINNING OF STRIFE. 


13 


and what father under such circumstances would not have been 
inclined to espouse his child’s quarrel? Yet he knew some- 
thing of Eleanor’s temper, and he knew the world well enough 
to counsel submission and to discourage any positive act of 
rebellion. 

“ I am thy father, Eleanor,” he said, tenderly — “ I am thy 
father, and I’ll take thy part as far as iver I can, my dear ; but 
listen to me : the world will go with thy husband — right or 
wrong, it will go with him — if thou takes one step it thinks 
thou ought not to take. It is a varry hard world on wives, 
sometimes. Doesn’t ta think that thou may liev been a bit 
wrong, too ?” 

“ Father, I am not going to be ordered about as if I was a 
slave, bought with his money — ” 

“Nay, nay, my lass. lie got fifty thousand pounds with 
thee. If it comes to money, we can put down more brass than 
lie can — ay, than he can. But thou art his wife, Eleanor, and 
thou must try and get thy happiness out of him. And thou 
won’t get happiness out of Anthony Aske by fighting him. If 
iver thou means to be a woman, thy first and hardest battles 
must be with thyself.” 

“ I thought he loved me better than everything. He said so 
often ; and now love seems to be quite forgotten.” 

“ He loves thee, I am sure of that ; but men hev many a 
thing to think of. Don’t thee set too much store on love, or 
expect more happiness from it than iver it gives either to men 
or women.” 

“ He has such a wilful, do-as-I-tell-you temper, father ; and 
you know I have not been used to call any man lord or master.” 

“ Sarah called Abraham lord.” 

“ Sarah had a great many faults, and that was one of the 
worst of them. I am not going to imitate Sarah. Besides, 
Sarah would not think of doing such a thing if she lived in 
England in the nineteenth century.” 

“ Well, well, Eleanor, it’s a wife’s place to submit a bit. A 
high temper in a woman doesn’t do varry much harm if she’s 


14 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


an old maid; but if she hes a husband it’s a different thing. 
Go home and do thy duty, and — ” 

“ I always do my duty, father.” 

“ Then do more than thy duty. It’s a poor wife that stops 
at duty, and measures her life by that rule. Give love and pa- 
tience and something higher still — self-forgetfulness. Anthony 
Aske isn’t a bad sort, but he’ll pay thee in thy own coin ; most 
men do that. Nay, nay, my dear lass, don’t thee cry, now !” 

For Eleanor had hid her face in the satin cushion of the sofa 
on which she sat, and was weeping bitterly, and Jonathan’s 
heart was hot and angry within him, as he moodily paced up 
and down the splendid room. He longed to comfort his child 
— to comfort her whether she deserved comfort or not ; and he 
felt as if there would be a solid gratification in some unequivo- 
cal abui?e of Anthony Aske. For it was hardly likely that 
Eleanor was altogether in the wrong; and she was so young, 
so beautiful and inexperienced, that the father thought, natu- 
rally, allowances of many kinds ought to be readily made for 
her. 

Upon the whole it was a very sorrowful conference, and Jona- 
than’s heart ached when he folded the rich carriage robes about 
his unhappy, angry daughter, and watched her drive away 
through the evening shadows to her own home. He sat think- 
ing and smoking until very late, full of uncertainty and annoy- 
ance. He felt as if Squire Aske had deceived him, and that 
was a wrong hard to forgive. As a lover he had been so atten- 
tive and affectionate. No service had then appeared too great. 
He had been at Eleanor’s side constantly, and ever on the alert 
to gratify her slightest wish. All who knew the young couple 
had regarded the marriage as particularly suitable, full of the 
promise of happiness. 

But Aske was an English squire of the old order, and he held 
in the main their ideas about women. They were to be faith- 
ful and obedient wives, careful, busy mistresses, and loving 
mothers of children. Eleanor’s efforts to establish an autocracy 
of her own at Aske Hall, to rule it as she had done her father’s 


THE BEGINNING OF STRIFE. 


15 


house, to fill it with company of her own selecting, and order 
its life according to her social tastes and ideas, were resisted by 
Anthony from the beginning. 

At first his opposition was pleasantly expressed. “ She might 
queen it over him, but he would be her deputy over the house- 
hold ; and as for filling the hall with company, he was jealous 
of her society, and would not share it with a crowd of foolish 
men and women.” In such flattering words he veiled his au- 
thority, for he was deeply in love with his beautiful bride, al- 
though he would not surrender to her the smallest of his priv- 
ileges as her husband and as master of Aske Manor and Hall. 
Indeed, even in the first days of their married life many things 
had shared his heart with her — his estate, his horses and dogs, 
and hunting affairs, county matters and politics. 

And Eleanor, undisciplined and inexperienced, could not ac- 
cept this divided homage. Her father had always given in to 
her desires and humored all her wishes. Her teachers had 
found it profitable never to contract her. Her servants had 
obeyed her implicitly. Her beauty, youth, and wealth had made 
her for a time a kind of social queen. Was she to sink into 
the mistress of Aske Hall, and the wife of Squire Anthony? 
Surely she ought to rule, at least, the little world around it, just 
as she had ruled the little world of which Burley House was the 
centre. 

But the main circumstance of the two small worlds were 
widely different. Jonathan Burley was an autocrat in his mill, 
and that power satisfied his ambition. He was very willing to 
resign all domestic power to the women who had charge of his 
home. On the contrary, Aske had no such outlet. His fine hall, 
his staff of servants, his farmers and tenants, were his business 
in life. He would not resign any of his authority over them. 
Eleanor soon found that if her orders agreed with the squire’s 
they were attended to ; if not, her husband set them absolutely 
aside. 

She tried anger, sulking, tears ; but if her way was not her 
husband’s way, she never succeeded in getting it. Squire An- 


1G 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


thony was not a man who would give in to an unreasonable 
woman ; and whenever Eleanor’s desires did not agree with his 
desires, he considered her unreasonable. In half a year a defi- 
nite point had been reached. The squire announced his inten- 
tions ; if his wife approved them he was glad ; if not, he fol- 
lowed them out, quite regardless of any opposition she might 
offer. 

Here was a domestic element full of unhappiness, possibly 
full of tragedy. Jonathan sat through the long night hours, 
wakeful, anxious, and sorrowful. He was glad when morning 
came, and brought with it the open mill, and the mails, and the 
buyers and sellers. Yet in the fever and turmoil of business 
he was conscious of an aching, fretful pain, that would assert 
itself above all considerations about “ yarns ” and “ pieces.” 
Ilis daughter’s face haunted his memory. He was angry at 
Aske, and yet he did not wish to quarrel with him. He had a 
conviction that it would be like the letting out of water — no- 
body could tell how far it would go, or in what way it would 
end. 

Early in the afternoon, when business had slacked a little, 
Burley was standing at the dusty window in his counting-room, 
looking into the mill-yard. The yard was full of big lorries, 
which giants in fustian and corduroy were busily loading. Usu- 
ally, under such circumstances, he would have been mentally 
checking off the goods and commenting upon them ; but at that 
hour, though his eyes followed every bale or box, he was not 
thinking of their contents. But as Ben Holden entered the 
room, he turned slowly, and said, “ Sagar is a brute to his beasts, 
Ben ; I’ll not hev good cattle sworn at and struck for nothing 
in my yard ; thou tell him I said so.” 

“ Ay, I will. He’s a big bully. If t’ poor brutes could talk 
back to him, he’d treat ’em better. He’s got a mite of a wom- 
an for a wife ; but, my word ! he daren’t oppen his lips to her.” 

“ Howiver does she manage him ? I’d like to know.” 

“ Why, thou sees, she’s got some brains ; and Sagar, he’s only 
so many pounds avoirdupois of flesh and blood. It’s mind 


THE BEGINNING OF STRIFE. 


17 


ruling matter, that’s all. Thou doesn’t look like thy sen to-day. 
Is there anything wrong with thee?” 

“There is surnmat varry wrong; I can tell thee that.” 

“ Is it owt I can help thee in ?” 

“ Thou lies helped me through many a trouble, Ben ; but this 
one is a bit above thy help. It is about my daughter. She 
and Aske hev got to plain up-and-down quarrelling; and she 
came with her sorrow to me last night. My poor lass ! She 
has no mother, thou sees, and, as she said, I hev to be father 
and mother both.” 

“ What was it about then ?” 

“ Well, thou sees, he told her he was going to meet the Tow- 
ton hounds, and he said to her, ‘ Put on your habit and hev a 
gallop ; it will do you good.’ Now, Eleanor wanted to go, but, 
woman-like, she would not admit it; she looked to be coaxed 
a bit, happen, but he answered, ‘ Varry well, she could do as she 
liked; he would go for his cousin Jane.’ Then t’ poor lass 
cried a bit, and he whistled, and when she got varry bad and 
hysterical with it all, he sent a footman for t’ doctor, and so left 
her by hersen, and went off to t’ meet, as if nothing was.” 

“I think he did just right, Jonathan.” 

“ Then thou knows nowt about it. A man that lies so little 
human nature in him as to bide a bachelor for more than forty 
years, like thou lies, isn’t able to say a sensible word about wom- 
enfolk and their feelings — not he ! There’s plenty of husbands, 
Ben, who always say the right thing, and always do the right 
thing, and, for all that, they are worse to live with than Blue- 
beards. I can tell thee that.” 

“St. Paul says—” 

“Don’t thee quote St. Paul to me about women; and, for 
.that matter, Paul had sense enough when writing about them 
to say he spoke ‘ by permission, and not of commandment.’ If 
Jesus Christ hed to suffer with us before he could feel with us, 
it’s a varry unlikely thing that St. Paul could advise about wom- 
en on instinct. Nineteen hundred years hes made a deal o’ dif- 
ference in women and wives, Ben.” 

2 


18 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“It’s like it lies.” 

“ I liev a mind to go and sec Aske. I’m all in t’ dark, like, 
and I’m feared to speak or move for fear I make bad worse.” 

“ I’ll tell thee what to do. Take wit with thy anger, and go 
thy ways to Aske Hall. Use thine own eyes and ears, and 
then thou wilt put t’ saddle on t’ right horse, I don’t doubt. 
Aske’s wool is a varry fine length, and we could do with all he 
lies of it. Tetterly got ahead of us last year, so go and speak 
to Aske for his next shearing, and when thou art on the ground 
thou can judge for thy sen.” 

“ Ay, that will be a good plan ; I’ll do it.” Then, as he hur- 
riedly turned over his letters, “ It’s a great pity, I think, that I 
didn’t marry again before this time o’ day. If I lied a wife 
now, Eleanor could tell her all her troubles, and she’d give her 
advice a man niver thinks about.” 

“ But, then, t’ wife thou is after, Jonathan, is varry little older 
than thy daughter ; but she’s a good lass. It’s Sarah Benson, 
isn’t it?” 

“ Ay, it’s Sarah. Dost thou think she’ll liev me, Ben ?” 

“ I niver asked her. Ask her thysen. I’m nobbut a bache- 
lor ta knows, and therefore varry ignorant about such inscruta- 
ble creatures as women. But nobody could be the worse o’ 
Sarah Benson, and they happen might be the better. Only I’ll 
tell thee one thing: Aske and his wife will be as mad as iver 
was if thou does a thing like that. Thou art a mill-owner now, 
and a land-owner, too, and Sarah, poor lass, is nobbut a ‘ hand.’ ” 

“ I was a ‘ hand ’ mysen once, Ben ; and ta knows I loved her 
mother before Sarah was born.” 

“ Varry good ; but Squire Aske and Mistress Aske were niver 
‘ hands;’ and they know nowt at all about Sarah Benson or her 
mother. And thou may make up thy mind to one thing — that 
is, that Sarah Benson isn’t t’ right kind of peace-maker in any 
quarrel o’ Squire Anthony Aske’s.” 

Jonathan took up his letters again with a vexed face. We 
are not always pleased with the people who give us sensible ad- 
vice ; and Ben knew well that he had said words bitter as gall 


THE BEGINNING OF STRIFE. 


19 


to the taste, however they might be by-and-by. Very soon af- 
terwards, however, he saw Burley standing in the mill-yard, while 
the hostler was getting his gig ready. 

“ He’ll be for Aske Hall,” thought Ben, and he went down 
to the gate and stood there. Six feet two, in a long, blue-checked 
pinafore and a cloth cap, might not strike people as a figure 
likely to command respect; but everything is in the circum- 
stances and the surroundings, and Ben, among thousands sim- 
ilarly clad, was a very fine type of a man used to authority. 
Even Burley was conscious of his moral power, and although 
he was privately in a very bad temper, he said, “ Ben, I’m going 
to Aske Hall ; do what thou thinks best about Shillingsworth’s 
offer.” 

“ Ay, I’ll do that for sure. Good-afternoon to thee.” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MASTER OF ASKE. 

“ A child of, our grandmother Eve, a female ; or, for thy more sweet un- 
derstanding-, a woman.” Love's Labour's Lost. 

“ A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, 

Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.” 

The Taming of the Shrew. 

“ Down on your knees, 

And thank Heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love.” 

-4s You Like It. * 

* 

The moral atmosphere, like the physical one, becomes im- 
pregnated with certain aromas — absent people rule over us, get 
hold of us by the forces’ of antipathy or attraction. As Burley 
left the mill he was conscious o'f being under a dominion of. this 
kind. His daughter had taken possession of him. She com- 
pelled him to leave his business and his bargains^ she called 
him to her by an attraction which he did not understand, but 
yet felt compelled to obey. 

It was a lovely afternoon, and he had a ride *)f six miles, a 
distance not worth naming in connection with the animal he 
was behind — one of those sturdy Suffolk Punches that can be 
driven one hundred and ten miles in eleven hours; the very 
best horse in the world before a whip ; the only. one that will 
pull twice at a dead weight. Jonathan was very foncLof horses, 
and very kind to them. It was only his strong religious in- 
stincts which had prevented him from being a jockey. “ When 
I was young,” he often said, “ I was all for horses! My word, 
I could sit anything, and jump anything right and left ! There 
was Squire Oxley’s “ Rampagious no one could mount him, and 
he sent for me. “ Rampagious ” stared at me, and I stared at 


THE MASTER OF ASKE. 


21 


him ; then I leaped upon his back and rode him to Oxleyholrae, 
twenty-eight miles !” 

•Outside his mill Jonathan was never more thoroughly happy 
than when he was driving a fine horse, and this afternoon, anx- 
ious and worried as he was, he felt a certain' amount of relief as 
soon as the reins were in his hand, and he knew himself bowl- 
ing away into pleasant country lanes. Swift motion seemed, 
at first, to be just what he most needed, but after a hard run of 
two miles he felt more inclined to take the distance easily. He 
was in a lovely road, shaded by branching limes and great elms, 
in which the wind swayed shadowy masses of thick leaves. The 
stone walls which bounded it were green with immemorial moss 
and fern, and fragrant with gadding honeysuckles; and beyond 
he could see the quiet crofts and pastures where the slow mov- 
ing cattle were grazing; while towards the horizon the undu- 
lating country had all the mystery of brooding clouds. 

This was a different atmosphere to the noisy mill, and he 
felt its influence ; for as a mother rocks and soothes her child 
at her breast, so Nature took the troubled man to her still, sweet 
heart, and he was comforted and knew not how. The last two 
miles were through the shady beech woods and fine parks of 
the Aske 'Manor, and the effect upon Burley’s temper was a 
beneficial one. The man who inherited such a grand old man- 
sion and such rich lands through twelve generations of gentle- 
men was°not one to be rated like a cotton-spinner. lie told 
himself that Aske might have rights peculiarly his own, and 
that any woman would owe something to the love which had 
selected her from all the world to share such an honorable po- 
sition. 

Aske had also been peculiarly generous about Eleanor’s fort- 
une. He would have married her without a penny, if Burley 
had not insisted on making over positively the fifty thousand 
pounds he intended as his daughter’s portion. Riding slowly 
through Aske’s lands, Burley got a view of his son-in-law’s side, 
of the quarrel ; and lie was more just to him than he had been 
in Burley House and in Burley Mills. He even began to sus- 


22 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


pect that Eleanor might have been “ trying.” ^He remembered 
certain times in his own experience when she had been “ be- 
yond everything” so; and he made up his mind to .give no 
encouragement to her unreasonable demands, for he was quite 
sure now they were in the main unreasonable. 

But when a man reckons up a woman in her absence, his 
decisions are very apt to amount to nothing when brought face 
to face with her. Just as soon as Burley met his daughter she 
regained her influence over him. She was sitting in her own 
parlor, a dainty room full of all sorts of pretty luxuries, and 
sweet with stands of exquisite flowers. Never had she seemed 
so radiantly beautiful in his eyes. Her flowing robe of soft 
scarlet merino gave a wonderful brilliancy to the snow and rose 
of her complexion and the pale gold of her loosened hair. She 
flung down the novel she was reading at his entrance, and with 
a cry of joy went to meet him. 

“ Father ! father /” 

The dear, simple words flung the inmost door of his heart 
open to her. He took her in his arms and kissed her. “ My 
lass ! my dear lass ! I am glad to see thee.” • She drew the low 
chair in which she had been sitting beside him, and took his 
large, brown hand between her white, jewelled ones, and stroked 
and fondled it. Aske was out riding, and Burley determined 
to take the opportunity and talk wisely to his child. He would 
advise her to do what was kind and right, but at the same time 
he knew that, right or wrong, he would defend her to the last 
shilling of his money and the last hour of his life. 

But who can reason with a high-tempered woman into whom 
the spirit of wilful contradiction has entered ? The quarrel 
between Eleanor and her husband had come to a struggle for 
supremacy, and Eleanor was determined not to submit. And 
alas ! the tenacity with which a woman will hold a‘post of this 
kind is amazing ; there is no driving her from it, no compro- 
mise, no terms of capitulation of which she can conceive. 

In the midst of a very unsatisfactory conversation Aske en- 
tered. He was a small, slight man of fair complexion, with an 


THE MASTER OF ASKE. 


23 


honest, kindly face, and a pleasant shrewdness in the eyes. 
Jonathan could have carried him almost as easily as a child ; 
but inches and weight were no indication o£ the real man. 
The real Anthony Aske was self-poised, quickly observant, and 
cool-headed, without being cold. He had a Tefined mouth, a 
wilful chin, and those wide-open gray eyes, with the bluish tint 
of steel in them, that always indicate a resolute and straightfor- 
ward character. He looked at Eleanor as he entered the room, 
and his glance roused and irritated her; but she met it fear- 
lessly, with her handsome head a little on one side and percep,- 
tibly lifted, and a smile which w&s at once attractive and pro- 
voking. 

Aske had a great respect for his father-in-law, and no inten- 
tion whatever of making him a partner in his domestic trou- 
bles. To tell the truth, he was not seriously uneasy about 
them. He had anticipated some difficulty in transforming the 
spoiled daughter into an obedient, gentle wife ; but any doubts 
as to his ultimate success had never assailed him. “ The Tam- 
ing of the Shrew ” is a drama every young husband believes 
himself capable of playing ; and Eleanor’s anger and scorn, her 
disobediences, and her sins of omission and commission against 
his authority, were not things which greatly dismayed or hurt 
him. He loved her none the less as yet for them ; and he con- 
fidently looked forward to a time when she would acknowledge 
the matrimonial bit, and answer the lightest touch of his guid- 
ing rein. In the interval he felt the dispute to be entirely their 
own, and he desired neither assistance nor sympathy from out- 
siders regarding it. 

He met Burley with the frankest welcome, and soon took 
him away to the gardens and stables. Jonathan was greatly 
impressed with all he saw. Aske’s was evidently the eye of the 
diligent and*kind master. In the gardens, the hot-houses, the 
park, the most beautiful profusion and the most beautiful or- 
der reigned. The great court, surrounded by the stables and 
barns and granaries, was a place for men to linger delightedly 
in. Aske was fond of horses, and he knew a great deal about 


24 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


them ; but that day Jonathan Barley amazed him. He looked 
at the cotton-spinner with admiration, and the cotton-spinner 
keenly enjoyed his little triumph. 

For two hours the men were really happy together, and they 
had found one topic at least on which both could talk with 
unflagging interest. Eleanor watched them coming along the 
terrace talking with animation, her father’s hand upon her hus- 
band’s shoulder, and Anthony’s gay, short laugh chorusing some 
merry recital of Jonathan’s younger days. Her heart burned 
with anger. She felt as if her father was a traitor to her cause. 
As for her husband, he was trying to put himself in matrimonial 
colors which he did not deserve ; trying to deceive her father, 
and to give him a wrong impression as to his treatment of her. 

When Aske, under the happy influence of that confidential 
two hours, met her, it was with lover-like admiration and affec- 
tion. She had dressed herself with wonderful skill and taste, 
and his eyes brightened with pleasure as he looked at her. But 
she answered his glance with one of intelligent scorn. She was 
determined he should understand that she had seen through his 
effusive demonstrations towards her father. So the dinner, 
though an excellent one, faultlessly served, was a very painful 
meal. Eleanor was satirical, mocking, brilliant, almost defiant, 
and Jonathan suffered keenly amid the flying shafts of her 
ready tongue. But he remembered that a little meddling will 
make a deal of care, and he tried to pass over the unpleasant, 
doubtful speeches. As for Aske, he received them with an 
impassive good-lmmor; he talked well and rapidly, and kept 
the conversation as far as possible from all domestic topics. 

After dinner there was a most uncomfortable two hours ; but 
Aske throughout them exhibited in a marked manner the influ- 
ence which gentle traditions and fine breeding exercise. Upon his 
own hearth-stone he would protect his father-in-law from every 
annoyance, if it were possible to do so ; and though he was natu- 
rally a much more passionate man than Burley, he never once 
suffered his good temper to desert him amid his wife’s innuen- 
does and scornful sarcasms. 


THE MASTER OF ASKE. 


25 


Not so with Jonathan. He was astonished, pained, and then 
angry, and when this point had been reached he showed it by 
lapsing into a frowning silence. But Eleanor seemed possessed 
by a spirit of aggravation ; her father’s evident disapproval 
taught her no restraint, and her husband’s amiability nettled 
and irritated her. At length Burley rose impatiently* and said, 
“ Aske, I’ll be obliged to thee if thou wilt order my gig. I’d 
better be going, I’m sure.” 

Left for a few minutes with his daughter, he turned to her, 
and asked, sternly, “ Whatever is t’ matter wi’ thee ? Thou 
hast behaved thysen varry badly to-night. Thou niver acted 
like this at Burley ; and if thou had, I would have put an end 
to it varry soon — thou may be sure o’ that.” 

“ Nobody ordered me about at Burley. I did just what I 
wanted to do. You never quarrelled with me, father.” 

“I’m varry sure it wasn’t thy husband as was quarrelsome 
to-night. Far from it. He was patient beyond iverything. A 
better man to bear wi’ a cross, unreasonable, provoking woman 
I niver saw ! Niver !” 

“You know nothing about him, father. Patient! Why, 
he has the angry word before the angry thought; and as for 
being quarrelsome, sooner than want a reason for a dispute, 
Anthony would quarrel with Aske, and Aske with Anthony.” 

“ I warn thee, Eleanor. Take care what thou art doing. It 
is far easier to put t’ devil in a good husband than to get him 
out. If thy mother hed iver talked to me as thou talked to 
Anthony this night, I would have gone to t’ mill and I would 
hev stopped there till she said she was ’shamed o’ hersen ; yes, 
I would, if I’d stopped there t’ rest o’ my life.” 

“ I suppose all husbands are alike. I have no doubt they are.” 

“ Nay, then, they aren’t. There are some varry bad ones, 
and some varry good ones. Thou hes got a better than thou 
deserves. And don’t thee forget one thing — thou can sow 
scornful, doubtful speeches if thou wants to, but thou will be 
sure to reap a fine harvest of plain, even-down hatred and sor- 
row. Mind what I say.” 


26 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


But though he thought it right to speak thus to her, he had 
never loved and admired her so much. Marriage had devel- 
oped the beautiful girl into a splendidly brilliant woman. The 
magnificence of her dress at dinner, the haughty confidence 
of her manner affected him strangely. He rode home in a con- 
flict of emotion, but the end of every train of thought was the 
same — “She was a good, loving lass when she was under my 
roof, and there is bound to be summat wrong wi’ Aske or wi’ 
his way o’ managing her.” 

The night was dark and close, and Jonathan was unusually 
sad ; for it is the best natures that are most easily subjugated 
by moral miasmas. He had been full of love and hope, and 
suddenly a supposition of evil and sorrow had put its hand 
upon him. He could not close his ears or pass it by. It 
had taken its place upon his hearth - stone, and he was com- 
pelled to listen to it. He was in the atmosphere of an ill-con- 
ditioned temper, of a soul determined to quarrel with existence, 
and he was worried by an uncertainty which doubled his anxie- 
ties. For though he was angry with Eleanor, he was yet inclined 
to believe that her rebellion was, in some way or other, entirely 
Aske’s fault. “ It isn’t fair,” he muttered, “ to badger a lass into 
such a way ! I think little of a man that can’t give up a bit to 
his wife.” 

When he reached his park gates, Ben Holden was slowly walk- 
ing about in front of them. He came up to the gig as Jonathan 
tightened the reins, and said, “Thou’s earlier than might be.” 

“ Whatever art thou here for? Is owt wrong at t’ mill ?” 

“ Not likely. There is an offer from Longworthy, and he 
wants ‘yes’ or ‘no’ in t’ morning. Thou knows thy mind on 
that subject, and we’d better send a night message.” 

“ Ay, we had. Get into t’ gig, and we’ll talk it over.” 

When the house was reached, Burley said, “That’s all about 
Longworthy ; but come in and hev a bit o’ cold meat. I want 
to talk to thee.” Then turning to the groom : “ Mind thou rubs 
t’ little beast down well, and give him a good supper and bed. 
I’ll mebbe be in to see after thee.” 


THE MASTER OF ASKE. 


27 


There was a rack in the chimney-corner full of long, clean 
clay pipes ; and after the “ bit o’ cold meat ” the two men sat 
down to smoke. * Hitherto their talk had been of wool and 
yarns and wages, but after a short silence Jonathan said, “ I 
hev been to Aske Hall.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Nay, it isn’t well. It is varry ill, as far as I can see. I don’t 
know whativer is come over my lass. She was always bidable 
wi’ me. I can’t help blaming Aske, though he was as patient 
and kind as niver was to-night.” 

“ Aske is a tight master; he’s more than likely to be a tight 
husband.” 

“ And my Eleanor is none used to take either bid or buffet.” 

“ That’s where all t’ trouble wi’ womankind begins. If Aske 
hedn’t set her up on a monument when he was courting her, she 
wouldn’t hev hed to come down to t’ common level after it./ If 
iver I £0 a-courting, I’ll tell no lies to t’ lass. I’ll not mak’ her 
an angel before t’ wedding, and nobbut a wife after it.” e 

“ Thou art a wise man, Ben, but when thou falls in love thou 
wilt do as wiser men than thee hev done.” 

“Ah, when I fall in love. But this is what I mean. Aske, 
before he got wed, was niver happy but when he was doing this 
and doing that, and running here and running there, to pleasure 
his lady. It was 1 What can I get thee ?’ and ‘ What shall I 
say to thee ?’ and 1 What can I do for thee ?’ And whether 
she smiled or frowned she was perfect. He liked to dawdle 
round her better than to go hunting or shooting. He thought 
little o’ Aske Hall then, and was forever at thy house. His 
place on t’ magistrate’s bench was always empty, for he were 
sitting at Miss Burley’s feet. As for farming matters, or govern- 
ment matters, he reckoned nowt o’ them. He were too happy 
singing fal-la-la songs wi’ thy lass, or rambling hand in hand wi’ 
her in t’ garden or park. Now then, he gets wed, and all at 
once t’ angel, and t’ queen, and t’ mistress of his soul and life 
is turned into a varry faultable woman. He not only stops all 
his false worship, but he wants to get up on t’ monument him- 


28 


BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 


sen and hev t’ deposed idol do the worshipping. My word ! 
It’s not natural to expect it — that is, if t’ idol has any feelings 
more than a stick or a stone.” • 

“ Now thou talks sensible. But heving found out t’ cause o’ 
t’ trouble, what would ta do to mend it?” 

“ I would speak to Aske quietly, and advise him to tak’ his 
freedom without any swagger. Mistress Aske will come down 
step by step if he’ll give her a helping hand and a pleasant 
word. And I’d speak to her likewise, and tell her that a wife’s 
glory is her obedience. Thou knows.” 

“ Nay, Ben, it’s bachelors that know all about women and 
wives ; I’ll tell thee what, it’s hard on my Eleanor, in any case.” 

For Jonathan loved his daughter very tenderly, and her little 
joyful cry of “ Father ! father /” still echoed in his memory. 
He looked around his lonely, silent rooms, and remembered how 
bright and gay they had been during the few happy years when 
she had held a kind of court in them. Nothing that his friend 
had said had helped him much, yet it had been some comfort 
to talk of his trouble to one whom he knew to be both wise and 
faithful. Still, at the end of an hour’s conversation little had 
been gained, and as their friendship had no pretences, Ben said, 
as he was leaving, “ I hevn’t done thee any good and Jona- 
than answered, “ No, thou hesn’t. I didn’t expect it.” 

“ Varry well, then, thou knows Who can do thee good, and 
if I’d been thee I would hev gone to Him first off.” 

And Jonathan bent his head in reply, and then went to his 
lonely room, where he sat still, brooding over his heavy thoughts 
for some time. For, though he kept saying to himself, “ It’s 
only a bit of a tiff, and most couples have them,” he could not 
get rid of a presentiment that he had entered into the chill of 
a long-shadowed sorrow. But when he rose up from his som- 
bre meditation he went to a little table on which there was a 
Bible, , and he laid his open palm upon it, and said, softly, “ Like 
as a father pitieth his children — ” and in the solemn pause and 
upward glance there was a mighty and a comprehensive petition 
that only God could answer. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE MASTER’S LOVE. 


“ Our lives most dear are never near, 

Our thoughts are never far apart, 

Though all that draws us heart to heart 
Seems fainter now, and now more clear. 

“ To-night love claims his full control, 

And with desire and with regret 
My soul this hour has drawn your soul 
A little pearer yet.” 

An admirable reticence distinguishes the Anglo-Saxon con- 
cerning the woman he loves. A Frenchman will talk you blind 
about his Julia’s eyes, and ride about the world with the name 
of his lady-love forever on the tip of his tongue; but not even 
to Ben Holden did Jonathan talk much of his love for Sarah 
Benson. Yet it had become the sweetest part of his life. With- 
out absolutely watching her, he was aware of all things which 
concerned her, and her presence and movements made upon him 
that impression which the most trifling facts connected with the 
person we love must make. 

It was a fine night in the middle of January, and Jonathan' 
had been to the chapel at a leader’s meeting. The financial af- 
fairs of the circuit were very much in his hands, and he man- 
aged them with the same prudence that he managed the affairs 
of his own mill. But it was not of them he was musing as he 
walked thoughtfully home in the moonlight. His daughter’s 
troubles lay heavy upon his heart, for things had not grown 
pleasanter between Aske and his wife during the past three 
months. With all the love and authority which his relation- 


30 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


ship warranted he had advised the unhappy woman ; but advice 
is a medicine few people ever really take. And even where it 
accorded with Eleanor’s own convictions of right, she generally 
found excuses for setting it aside. “The more I submit, fa- 
ther,” she had said, passionately, that very afternoon, “ the more 
unreasonable and tyrannical he is;” and Jonathan had reflected 
with a sigh that such a result was natural, and to be expected. 

Little good came of his anxiety and worry, but yet he could 
not keep his daughter’s marriage out of his mind, and doubtless 
he let it “fret him to evil” every time he entertained it. This 
night as he thought of his beautiful child, and of the fifty thou- 
sand pounds which he had so cheerfully given to make her hap- 
py, he felt bitter and hard towards his son-in-law. And to Aske 
he had not been able to speak. Once only he had attempted 
to open the delicate subject, and the young husband had met 
the overture with such a frigid coldness and haughty air as to 
effectually check Jonathan’s further advances. 

His sorrow made him feel his loneliness, his need of human 
kindness and of human love, and then his heart turned to Sarah 
Benson. He had hoped that when his daughter went to Aske, 
Sarah would be more inclined to listen to his suit : but even in 
this respect t.wngs had gone badly with him. He felt that she 
avoided him, and he saw that her eyes were full of trouble. The 
road between Barton Chapel and Burley House was a lonely 
bit of highway, running along the edge of the moor, with Bar- 
ton Woods on one side of it. Men in groups of two and three 
passed him at intervals ; they were mill-hands, with the loud, 
grating voices of men leading a hard life, so he easily gath- 
ered from their conversation that they had been to the weekly 
prayer-meeting. They all gave him a “ Good-night, master !” 
as they passed ; and he watched them trudging down the hill 
to their little cottages, with a half-conscious remembrance of the 
days when he had been their fellow. 

There were several paths through Barton Woods leading from 
the road to the little villages on the other side of it. Suddenly 
Jonathan heard the voice of some one coining singing through 


THE MASTER’S LOVE. 


31 


the lonely place — singing as the untutored sing, with a shrill 
melancholy, dwelling chiefly on the high notes. He knew the 
voice well, and he stood still to listen. 

“ ‘ I have waited for thee,’ He murmured, 

‘ Through weary nights and days, 

Beside the well in the twilight, 

And along thy devious ways — 

But thou wert content to miss Me,’ 

And I met His tender gaze. 

‘ Content no more, sweet Master, 

Except Thou be with me 
From this time forth in the city, 

Where my daily toil must be ; 

And at evening-time by the fountain, 

Where I will sing to Thee.’ 

‘He raised me up and blessed me, 

That sweet yet awful Priest ; 

He gave me the Cup of Blessing 
From the eternal Feast, 

The wine with hues more radiant 
Than sunrise in the east.” 


Here the singer came to a little stile, fifty yards in advance 
of Jonathan, passed over it into the highway, and went forward, 


singing, 


“ Dear heart, I have found the Master, 

He is sweet beyond compare ; 

He will save and comfort the weary soul, 
He will make thee white and fair. 

Not as I gave will He give, 

But wine divine and rare.” 


“ Sarah !” 

“ He is with me in the tumult 
Of the city harsh and dim ; 

And at evening by the fountain, 
Where I sit and sing to Him. 

Now He wears a veil of shadows 
On the face divine and fair, 

But His angels whisper to me, 

‘ There will be no shadows there,’ ” 


32 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“Sarah!” 

She turned, and stood still until Jonathan reached her. 

“ I thought it was thy voice I heard in Barton Woods. Eh, 
lass ! I am glad to see thee. Is all well wi’ thee?” 

“ I try to think so, master. One mustn’t expect too much o’ 
this life.” 

“Steve’s loom has stood still varry often lately. It’s enough 
to try anybody’s patience. It is that.” 

“ I know it, master. But thou wilt bear a bit longer wi’ him ?” 

“ Is that what thou thinks?” 

“ Ay, it is.” 

“ I’ll do anything thou asks me to do. Sarah, can thou give 
me one kind thought ? I would be glad to bear a’ thy crosses 
for thee. If thou would marry me I would put up wi’ all that 
thou loves for thy dear sake. Can ta see thy way clear to wed 
me, Sarah ?” 

As they stood together he lifted her hand and clasped it be- 
tween his own. The moonlight fell all over Sarah’s slight fig- 
ure in its black cloak, and gave a touching beauty to her face, 
perfectly outlined by the little woollen kerchief pinned tightly 
over the head and under the chin. 

“ Can ta see thy way clear to wed me, Sarah ?” 

“ Nay, I can’t. I am in a deal o’ trouble about Steve.” 

“ I’ll do owt thou wishes for Steve. He is thy brother, and 
I can do a deal for thy sake.” 

*“ He’s a varry proud lad, sir. He’ll not take a halfpenny 
from anybody.” 

“ Not he. lie takes thy money, and thy time, and all thou 
hes.” 

“ Ay, he does that ; but he has a right to ’em. Five minutes 
before mother died she asked me niver to give Steve up, niver 
to leave him as long as he needed me. She entered heaven wi’ 
my promise in her hands. Dost ta think I can break it ? Would 
ta want me to break it? I can’t give my life to him and to 
thee, too. Thou wouldn’t want me with a broken vow and a 
half heart, Jonathan Burley ?” 


THE MASTER’S LOVE. 


33 


“ God bless thee, Sarah. Do thy duty, my lass ; I can go on 
loving and waiting.” 

“ Then good-night, master. I’ll go home without thee. We 
might happen meet folk nearer t’ village, and there’s them that 
would see wrong if their eyes were out.” 

Jonathan waited at the stile and watched her down the hill. 
She sung no more. She felt that he had come very close to 
her heart, and the longing for the rest and for the higher things 
which would be a part of the love offered her, was so strong 
for a moment or two that it cost her a few heavy tears to put 
all hope of them away. Her eyes were still misty when she 
reached the cottage. The key had been left at a neighbor’s, 
and she hoped Steve was at home. But all was dark and 
lonely. 

If for a little while she had fainted in spirit the weakness 
was over. She put the fire together, and the cheery blaze was 
soon making pictures among the pewter and crockery on the 
cottage walls. Then she brought the table before it and laid it 
for supper. “ He’ll varry like be hungry when he comes in,” 
she whispered to herself ; and she cut a slice of cold mutton 
and shred an onion with it, and set the pan to simmer on the 
hob. She hurried for fear all would not be ready when he ar- 
rived ; but ten o’clock struck, and the savory dish began to 
waste away, and she was so hungry that she was compelled to 
eat her haver-cake and cheese alone. 

It was eleven o’clock when Steve came, and there was a look 
on his face she had never seen there before — a look of exulta- 
tion and pleasure, uncertain in character, and attended with an 
unusual silence. 

“ My lad, what’s the matter wi’ thee ? Thou doesn’t eat thy 
victuals, either; there’s summat up.” 

“ Ay, there is ; but I’m feared to tell thee.” 

“ Nay, but thou needn’t be. Is ta in any trouble?” 

“ Not I, lass. I’m varry happy. Nobbut I’m going to be 
wed.” 

“ Thou — art — what ?” 

3 


34 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ Going to be wed.” 

She stood up and looked at him, turning white as she did so, 
even to her lips. A sense of wrong and a great anger welled 
up in her heart; and she lifted the loaf and went with it into 
the pantry to hide the tears she could not suppress. 

Steve kept his eyes on his plate. lie was eating with a keen 
relish, now that his confession was made ; but there was a bit- 
ter moment or two in Sarah’s heart ere she could command 
herself sufficiently to ask, “Who is ta going to wed?” 

“Joyce Barnes.” 

“ Niver !” 

“ Ay ; it’s a wonder such a bonny lass should hev me. But 
Joyce lies promised, and I’m that set up to-night, I can scarce 
tell what I’m doing or saying.” 

“ How is ta going to keep her?” 

“I’ll work steady now. I’ve been so bothered about Joyce 
lately that I couldn’t work ; but I’ll miss no days now.” 

“ Then tlrcui wilt do more for Joyce Barnes than iver thou 
did either for thy mother or me.” 

“ It need make no difference between us, Sarah.” 

“ Ay, but it will.” 

“ And thou needn’t make any change for my wedding. 
There is room enough for three, I’se warrant.” 

Sarah looked quickly into the handsome, wavering counte- 
nance. It was evident to her, from Steve’s remark, that he 
considered the furniture of the cottage his own. Yet it had 
been slowly gathered by Sarah’s mother and by Sarah herself, 
lie had never taken a thought about it, or given a shilling tow- 
ards it. But still, he had a comfortable conviction that what- 
ever a parent left belonged of right to the son, in preference to 
the daughter. And Sarah felt that if Steve chose to take all 
on this ground, he must do so. She would scorn to claim even 
the additions made with her own earnings since her mother’s 
death, unless Steve should recognize her right and insist upon 
her taking them. 

When she talked the matter over with him in the morning 


THE MASTER’S LOVE. 


35 


be made no allusion to these articles. Perhaps his facile mind 
had forgotten them ; at any rate, his one anxiety was to make 
the cottage as pretty as possible for his bride. “ And I’ll trust 
it all to thee, Sarah,” he said, with a calm, unconscious selfish- 
ness that roused in his sister’s heart almost as much pity as an- 
ger. For she considered that he had been accustomed all his 
life to look upon her self-denial as his peculiar right ; and, after 
all, it was like expecting consideration from a child to expect it 
from Steve. 

“ I’ll hev everything as sweet and clean as hands can make 
’em,” she answered ; “ but, Steve, Joyce can do what she likes 
with t’ room that will be empty up-stairs.” 

“ What does ta mean, Sarah ? Isn’t ta going to keep thy 
own room? There’s no fear but what Joyce will be varry 
pleasant wi’ thee; and we’ll get along varry contented to- 
gether.” 

“ Does ta really think I am going to bide on here ?” 

“ To be sure I do. Why not ?” 

“ My word ! but thou is mistaken, then. Joyce and me hev 
nothing likely between us. She hesn’t a pleasure above a new 
dress or a picnic, and she’ll hev no end o’ company here. I 
couldn’t live among such carryings-on — not I. Old Martha 
Crossley will let me hev a room, and thou will get on varry 
well without me. I can see that, my lad.” 

For it wounded her terribly that Steve made scarcely a de- 
cent opposition to this plan, though in reality he was more 
thoughtless than heartless in the matter. Only, when thought- 
lessness wounds love, it is a cruel sin ; and Sarah was in a state 
of rebellious grief the next two weeks. But she cleaned the 
cottage with an almost superfluous care, though the whitewash- 
ing and scrubbing and polishing had all to be done between 
mill hours. The bitter tears she shed over the work she per- 
mitted no human eye to see ; for she was well aware that her 
grief would be little understood — would even, perhaps, be im- 
puted to selfish and unworthy motives. 

Yet the simple fact of Steve’s marriage was not what hurt 


36 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


her. She had expected that event, had looked forward to it, 
and begun to love the girl she had hoped would have been his 
choice — a good, industrious girl, with whom she would have 
gladly shared her brother’s love and the comfortable home her 
labor and economy had made. But Joyce Barnes ! — a gay, 
idle, extravagant lass of seventeen years, whose highest ambi- 
tion was a bonnet with artificial flowers — that was a different 
thing. 

Then, also, she had been excluded from all share or sympa- 
thy in the affair. Steve had given her no confidence — had 
never, indeed, named Joyce to her. Perhaps he had feared 
that she would oppose his marriage ; but she felt quiiS sure 
that if Steve had confessed his love, and asked her to bear with 
Joyce, and help her to do right, she could have loved her for 
his sake. But she had only been thought of when the wed- 
ding had been arranged, and her presence in the cottage was 
likely to interfere with the lovers. Steve had always brought 
his troubles to her for help and consolation, but he had delib- 
erately shut her out from the joy of his love and marriage. 

The day before it took place she got a room from Martha 
Crossley, and moved her box of clothing there. She did not 
touch the smallest thing that had been used in common ; but 
it was not without a pang she resigned the simple chairs and 
tables, bought with much self-denial, and endeared to her by 
the memory of the mother who had shared it. In the savings- 
bank there was the sum of eleven pounds in their joint names. 
Nearly every shilling of it had been placed there by Sarah, and 
Steve was well aware of the fact. Yet when she proposed to 
divide it equally, he accepted the proposal without a demur. 
For of all human creatures, lovers are the most shamelessly self- 
ish ; and at this time Steve was ready to sacrifice any one for 
the pretty girl he was going to marry. It was Sarah’s money, 
and he knew it ; but his one thought in the matter was, that it 
would enable him to take his bride to Blackpool for a whole 
week. 

The summer which followed this marriage was full of grief 


THE MASTER’S LOYE. 


37 


to Sarah — grief of that kind which lets the life out in pin- 
pricks — small, mean griefs, that a brave, noble heart folds the 
raiment over and bears. Steve’s ostentatious happiness was al- 
most offensive, and she could not but notice that he was never 
now absent from his loom. She told herself that she ought to 
be glad, and that she was glad ; but still she could not help a 
sigh for the mother- love and the sister-love which he had 
so long tried and wounded by his indifference and his lazi- 
ness. 

They met at the mill every day, and Sarah always asked 
kindly, after Joyce. There was little need, however, to do so. 
Steve could talk of nothing but Joyce — her likings and dislik- 
ings, her ailments, her new dresses, or the friends who had been 
to take a bit of supper with them. Now, it is far easier for a 
woman to be self-denying than to be just; and, in spite of all 
her efforts, Sarah did often feel it very hard to listen to him 
with a show of interest and good-humor. 

About the end of the summer there came a change. Steve 
had finished a beautiful web, and it brought him to the notice 
of a firm who offered him a larger wage than he was receiving 
from Burley. “Don’t thee take such an offer, Steve,” urged 
Sarah. “Burley hes been varry good and patient wi’ thee. 
Thou may get five shillings a week more and be the worse off, 
I can tell thee that.” 

But Joyce thought differently. “Steve’s work wasn’t com- 
mon work,” she said, “ and he had been underpaid for a long 
time. Steve had a right to better himsen y and it was fair 
selfishness in Sarah to want to keep him backward, just so as 
she could hev him working at her elbow.” Besides, Joyce had 
calculated that the five shillings extra would give them a trip 
every other week ; it would do, in fact, so many fine things that 
Steve felt as if it would be throwing away a fortune to refuse 
the offer. 

So he left Burley’s Mill and went to Chorley’s, and held him- 
self quite above his old work-fellows in the change. Burley let 
him go without a word of remonstrance. He was almost glad 


38 


BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 


when there was another face at his loom ; yet he watched Sarah 
anxiously, to see how the change affected her. She was paler, 
and she sang less at her work, but this alteration had been a 
gradual one — so gradual that nobody but Jonathan had no- 
ticed it. 

He looked in vain, however, for any recognition from her. 
Every day, when he visited the weaving-room, his glance asked 
her a question she never answered. He tried to meet her com- 
ing from chapel ; but if he did so she was always with some of 
her mates, and he could only pass on with a “ Good - night, 
lasses !” to their greeting. 

But though all our plans fail, when the time comes the meet- 
ing is sure ; and one night, as Jonathan was leaving a friend’s 
house at a very late hour, he saw a figure before him that he 
knew on sight, under any circumstances. He was astonished 
that Sarah should be out so late, especially as the rain was pour- 
ing down, and the night so black that nothing was distinguish- 
able excepting as it passed the misty street lamps. They were 
quite alone, the village was asleep, and he was soon at her 
side. 

“ I hev found thee by thysen at last, Sarah. Whcreiver hes 
ta been, my lass ?” 

“ Granny Oddy is dying. I was keeping the watch until mid- 
night with her.” 

“ What hes ta to say to me now ? Steve has left thee alto- 
gether now, hesn’t he ?” 

“ Ay, but I can’t leave him.” 

“ He doesn’t need thee now, Sarah.” 

“ But he’s going to need me, and that’s worse than iver.” 

“ Why-a ! I thought he wer doing extra well.” 

“I think he was niver doing so badly. They are living at 
heck and manger, master ; and Joyce hed a little lass last week, 
and she’s varry d wining and sick. I went there last night, and 
cleaned up things a bit for her. It isn’t like t’ old place ; not 
at all.” 

“ lies ta no word of hope for me, then ?” 


THE MASTER’S LOVE. 


39 


“ Nay, I hevn’t ; not yet.” 

“ It’s varry hard on me, Sarah.” 

“ Happen it isn’t easy on other folk.” 

“ Thank thee, lass. There’s a bit o’ comfort in them words. 
Some day I’ll bear thy troubles for thee. I shall still hope for 
that.” 


CHAPTER V. 


sarah’s sorrow. 

“ Ingratitude’s the growth of every clime, 

And in this thankless world the givers 
Are envied even by the receivers ; 

’Tis now the cheap and frugal fashion 
Rather to hide than pay the obligation ; 

Nay ’tis much worse than so — 

It now an artifice doth grow, 

Wrongs and outrages to do, 

Lest men should think we owe.” 

Cowley. 

Jonathan saw little of his daughter for some weeks after his 
visit to Aske Hall. She did not perceive the sympathy in her 
father’s heart, and his few sharp words thoroughly disconcerted 
her. The struggle for supremacy, however, still went on be- 
tween Anthony and herself ; and there were encounters and rec- 
onciliations, stratagems and truces, and diplomatic approaches, 
just as real and clever as if the points at issue had been of na- 
tional importance. 

In the mean time, Eleanor was making a great social triumph, 
and Jonathan hardly lifted a local newspaper in which her own 
entertainments, or her appearance at the entertainments of oth- 
ers, was not flatteringly commented on. Sometimes he would 
point’ them out to Ben Holden ; but whether he did or not, 
Ben always knew when they were there by the fatherly pride on 
Jonathan’s face, and the respectful manner with which he laid 
aside that particular number of the Guardian or the Mercury . 

At least once or twice in the month he received a pretty un- 
business-like envelope of thick satin paper closed with the Aske 
arms. It was the formal invitation to a dinner at Aske ; and 


sarah’s sorrow. 


41 


though it was understood to be a ceremony, all the same, the 
ceremony pleased Jonathan. “Thou sees,” he said one morn- 
ing to Ben Holden, “ I might sit and hobnob \vi’ Baron Fairley, 
and t’ Lord High Sheriff, and t’ member for Parliament and all 
t’ rest of t’ quality, if I lied a mind to,” and he pushed towards 
him Eleanor’s pretty invitation, with a very poor pretence of 
indifference. 

“ Why doesn’t ta go an odd time ?” 

“Because I doan’t like to go where I can’t do mysen justice. 
When I take t’ chair at t’ wool-exchange dinner I feel all there. 
But at Aske’s they’ll talk of hunting and coursing, and what 
t’ magistrates hev been doing ; or mebbe about t’ last new novel, 
and such like, and I’d hev to sit and listen, and look like a fool. 
Yet thou knows, Ben, when t’ talk is about wool and trade and 
manufacturing, I can hold my own with t’ best of them.” 

“ Thou lies a deal o’ pride in thee yet, Jonathan Burley.” 

“ I doan’t say I hevn’t ; but happen if thou would look near 
home thou would find a feeling or two quite as faulty.” 

“ Thou says right. I’ll hev to look after Ben Holden a bit. 
But thou arn’t a fool on any subject. A man that can manage 
to keep his frames going, whatever sort o’ weather there is in t’ 
manufacturing world, is a man whose opinions are worth listen- 
ing to on any subject ; and I’d like well for thee to hev a talk 
wi’ Baron Fairley. He’s got a mind above t’ common run.” 

“Nay, I doan’t think so! He’s got some kind o’ wimwam 
in his head about educating t’ working-class.” 

“And why not? Why not, Jonathan?” 

“ Because we shall hev no end of worry and suffering before 
we can manage to give ’em enough learning to enable them to 
put it to right uses. Thou lies only to look at Tim Sharp and 
Bob Linker to find out that a little learning is a varry danger- 
ous thing.” 

“ There ought to be something taken on trust for t’ working 
man of t’ future.” 

“ Not there. We take men as we find ’em, Ben, and not as 
they are to be. T’ world is an infidel world ; it can be made 


42 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


to see, but it can’t be made to trust. I know wliat t’ working- 
man is, and I wouldn’t lend a sixpence on what he is going to 
be. If t’ grace of Jesus Christ isn’t enough to lift him up, I 
think all t’ science and philosophy they can put into him will 
only make a bigger failure of him. People nowadays talk of 
t’ sciences they hev invented, as if they thought they would take 
’em to heaven — but I’m cheating this hour out o’ its lawful 
work talking to thee; and, after all, t’ art o’ living is t’ main 
thing. If we could only — rich and poor — manage to master 
that study, it would be t’ greatest thing as could be.” 

It was on the night following this conversation that Jonathan 
met Sarah after her late watch with Granny Oddy. A less 
romantic walk than that through the dark, muddy street could 
scarcely be imagined ; and yet never had the woman beloved 
by Jonathan come so nearly and so dearly to him. For a few 
hundred yards she had walked under the shelter of his umbrella, 
and by the last misty lamp they had stood a moment to say 
“good-by.” The slight figure, in its black, dripping cloak, and 
the pale, thoughtful face under the black hood, appealed to him 
as no beauty radiant with joy and sumptuously clothed could 
have done. Sombre and sad as the figure was which he watched 
disappear within Martha. Crossley’s cottage door, it was a figure 
full of all noble significance and of every womanly grace to 
Jonathan Burley. 

He plodded on, almost cheerfully, through the dreary down- 
pour, thinking of the admission she had made — that it was as 
hard for her as for him — and the promise in it, indefinite as it 
was, made him tread lightly and walk at a far swifter pace than 
usual. The walk at that hour and in such weather was a bit of 
self-denial on Jonathan’s part, and this night he felt fully re- 
paid for it. 

“ If I hed been riding, ten to one I’d hev missed her,” he 
said ; “ and, my word ! I’d hev walked all night for the words 
she spoke to me.” 

He was wet through when he reached his home, and the 
house-keeper met him with a face full of disapproval. “ It isn’t 


sarah’s sorrow. 


43 


right, sir, nor what’s to be expected, sir, with a stable full of 
horses, and a groom that lazy as it would be good for him to 
hev to wait a bit, and get well wet.” 

“ It would be varry wrong, Mrs. Knowles, if I kept man and 
beast waiting in the storm for me while I was eating and drink- 
ing and heving a good time. And if I get wet through, I can 
hev dry clothes and a drop o’ something warm to make me 
comfortable ; and if I get cold I can grumble about it, and I 
hev a first-rate house-keeper to see that I get my hot gruels, and 
my bit o’ good eating; but it’s different with t’ poor beasts — 
now isn’t it?” 

In fact, Jonathan was in a kind mood with all the world that 
night. Even Steve Benson came in for a few pitying thoughts, 
although he was very justly angry at Steve for his defection 
and ingratitude. “ He’s a poor silly lad, and lie’s none fit for 
a weaving-room ; and if Sarah will only wed me, I’ll set him 
up in some other way.” Across his mind there came a thought 
of an American farm. It might be the salvation of Steve ; and 
Jonathan felt sure that he would be much happier if the lad 
were too far away to be perpetually coming between Sarah and 
himself. 

One day, towards the end of April, Mrs. Aske’s carriage 
stopped at the gates of Burley’s Mill, and Eleanor stepped light- 
ly from the handsome vehicle. Jonathan saw her approach, 
and went to meet her ; and as they crossed the mill-yard to- 
gether, he was very proud of the beautiful woman by his side, 
and pleasantly conscious of the many faces watching them from 
the windows. Eleanor wore a rich violet-colored silk robe, and 
a very beautiful ermine cloak, and she carried her fair head 
loftily as a queen, resting herself slightly upon her father’s 
arm. 

Aske was not with her. He had gone to his saddler’s and 
would call in half an hour ; “ And, father,” said Eleanor, joyful- 
ly, “ we are going to London. Lady Fairley is to present me 
at court, and Anthony has taken a fine house, and I intend to 
have a royal time for the rest of the season.” 


44 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“I am glad to hear thou art so happy. It isn’t ivery lass 
that is as fortunate as thou art.” 

She took no notice of the remark, hut went on to detail the 
interesting points in the proposed visit. And as Jonathan 
watched her luminous face all aglow with expectation, and ex- 
pressing a score of flitting emotions, he thought bow lovely she 
was, and how easy it must be for her to influence her husband, 
if she only took a little trouble to effect her purpose. 

In about an hour Aske called. He was so handsome and 
gentlemanly, so disposed to be friendly to his father-in-law and 
amiable to Eleanor, that an observant person would never have 
detected the marked authority of his manner, or her half-resent- 
ful submission to it. In the midst of a gay conversation Aske 
said, suddenly, “ Come, Eleanor, we must go. The horses have 
not been exercised, and are restive.” 

“ I don’t want to go just yet.” She was standing at her fa- 
ther’s side, and she laid her hand upon his shoulder and kissed 
him. 

“ We must go now, at once.” His face darkened as he re- 
iterated the order, and his mouth, finely formed as it was, closed 
with an ominous resolution. 

“Thou had better go, my dear lass. I know what under- 
worked horses are capable of, and thou can hear them champ- 
ing and stamping outside. Kiss me, my bonny Eleanor, and 
God Almighty bless thee.” 

Then he rose, and they went together to the gates. But all 
the light was out of Eleanor’s face, and her large gray eyes 
were troubled and full of tears. The look in them made Jona- 
than’s heart burn ; and though he said farewell to Aske with 
civility and good words, he did not offer him his hand. As the 
carriage drove away, Eleanor leaned forward and looked stead- 
ily at her father. He lifted his hat and watched her out of 
sight with a sorrowful face. She seemed now always to bring 
a shadow with her, no matter under what circumstances they 
met. 

“ What does ta look so troubled about ?” 


Sarah’s sorrow. 


45 


“ I don’t really know, Ben. My daughter always gives me a 
feeling of trouble.” 

“ Now, look here ! if there is a cross for thee, thou will come 
to it in the right time. Then take it up and carry it like a 
good man should do. But don’t thee go out of thy way to 
find a cross ; that’s as bad as going out of it to escape one.” 

“ I am afraid, Ben, my lass isn’t a happy wife.” 

“There are women, and women, Jonathan, who always see a 
black spot in their sunshine. It’s their own shadow.” 

“If I thought Aske was unkind to her, I would — ” 

“ Fret not thysen to do evil in anywise ; thou art old enough 
to know that there is no foolery like falling out. Come, come, 
I thought they looked a varry comfortable-like couple. Shad- 
ows grow bright if folks hev patience.” 

And for some weeks it seemed as if Ben’s prediction were 
correct. The eclat and splendor of her London life satisfied 
Eleanor’s ambition. She was “presented” by Lady Fairley, 
and she made a great sensation in society. Mrs. Anthony 
Aske’s beauty, her dress, her receptions, and her fine manners, 
filled quite a space in the Court Journal. Jonathan was not 
indifferent to his daughter’s social triumph. He bought a 
dozen copies of the paper and intended sending them to all his 
friends ; but, in some way or other, Ben Holden discovered his 
intention. 

“ Don’t thou do it, Jonathan,” he said. “ I’m ’shamed to 
see an old man like thee going about wi’ a paper like that in 
his pocket.! Kissing t’ Queen’s hand is a grand thing, no doubt ; 
but it’s a far grander thing to hev built this mill, and to carry 
in thy brain and hands the living of nearly a thousand human 
beings. If ta isn’t proud o’ that, for goodness’ sake don’t be a 
fool about a show o’ feathers and diamonds.” , 

“ Happen thou art in t’ right, Ben.” 

He laid the papers aside, and went out of the office with the 
overseer. Somehow the thought of Sarah Benson came with 
an irresistible force to him ; and as Ben went down to the en- 
gine-room he ascended to the upper weaving-shed. He had not 


46 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


seen Sarah for many days, and he had not spoken to her since 
that hour in which he had met her in the dark, rainy midnight 
nearly four months previously. It was his custom to visit sev- 
eral of the looms before he went near Sarah’s — sometimes even 
to pass hers by with only a casual glance — and there were sev- 
eral girls whose work he admired or criticised with far greater 
freedom. Conscience did not make him cowardly, for he had 
not a thought but what was bred of honor and love, but it did 
make him self-conscious, and even a little nervous. 

But this day, when he came to Sarah’s loom, he could not 
pass it. There had been something in his eager, longing gaze 
which had compelled the girl to lift her eyes to meet it. They 
were red and swollen with long weeping, and her face was wan 
with sorrow and weariness. Jonathan was shocked. He lifted 
the pattern she was working from, and as he pretended to ex- 
amine it, said, in a low voice, “ Whativer is wrong with thee, 
Sarah ? Thee must tell me.” 

“ There are ill eyes watching us, master ; please to go for- 
ward at once.” 

“ I’ll make thee my wife to-morrow, and shut every ill eye 
and stop every ill tongue.” 

“ Thou art doing me a great wrong, looking at me that-a-way. 
Please thee go forward. It is t’ kindest thing thou can do.” 

He laid down the pattern with some remark about its diffi- 
culty, and went forward and out of the room altogether. He 
was for the moment angry at Sarah, but that feeling was speedi- 
ly superseded by one of pity and anxiety. As he was slowly 
going down the main stairs, he met Ben Holden coming up. 
He said to him, “ Go into t’ room where Sarah Benson is work- 
ing and look at her face. Then I want thee to find out what- 
iver is wrong with her.” 

In at one door and out at the other Ben went, and he ap- 
peared to glance at every one but Sarah. Yet it was only her 
he noted. She had evidently given more way to her grief — 
whatever it was — since Jonathan’s visit, for Ben saw that she 
was quietly weeping, and that her companions lifted their eyes 


sakah’s sorrow. 


47 


a moment to her as Ben passed through the room. He did 
not, however, speak to any of them ; he went to the lower shed 
and called out Jane Crossley, the granddaughter of the woman 
with whom Sarah lodged. 

“Jane, dost ta know what Sarah Benson is fretting hersen ill 
about ?” 

“Ay, I know. Iverybody knows, for that matter.” 

“ Nay, then, I doan’t ; but I wish thou’d tell me. T’ lass 
looks in a poorly way.” 

“ Why, ta sees, she hes hed double work for her hands nigh 
on to four months now, and she’s hed a bit o’ real heart-grief 
last week.” 

“ Is it about Steve ?” 

“ In a way, it is. Thou knows after Joyce hed her little lass 
she was varry bad, and for two months she didn’t leave her 
room at all. Ivery night as soon as Sarah had drunk off a cup 
o’ tea, away she went to Steve’s. They needed her badly there. 
Varry often she found both Joyce and baby crying against one 
another ; and she hed ’em both to wash and feed and do for. 
Then she cooked something, and tidied up t’ house, and work- 
ed away most of t’ night hours. Sometimes both t’ mother 
and child were sick, and t’ poor lass wouldn’t get a wink of 
sleep between day and day’s work.” 

“Thou should hev helped her a bit.” 

“ I hed my own ‘ lookout,’ Master Holden ; and both mother 
and granny thought Sarah did more than she was called to do, 
seeing that Steve could hev all t’ work he hed a mind to take.” 

“Well, Joyce hes been up and well for a goodish bit now, 
hesn’t she ?” 

“Ay, she hes; but she’d got used to Sarah helping her wi’ 
t’ washing and cleaning; got used to Sarah nursing t’ child 
while she got a bit of sleep : and so Sarah was over at t’ cot- 
tage most nights for this thing or the other. And Steve hesn’t 
been quite as steady lately ; he got out o’ heart with t’ expense 
of t’ doctor and medicine, and I’ll warrant Sarah hes hed to give 
many a shilling to make both ends of t’ week meet.” 


48 


BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 


“ But she isn’t a lass to cry over a few shillings.” 

“ Not her, indeed. It is about t’ christening she’s crying, 
thou knows.” 

“ Nay, I know nowt about christening.” 

“ Well, then, t’ little lass lied to be made a Christian, thou 
sees, and last Sunday t’ job were done in fine style at t’ parish 
church. Sarah had taken wonderful to t’ baby, and she thought 
no less than it would be called after her, ’specially as Steve’s 
mother and Joyce’s mother had both t’ same name. But Joyce 
wouldn’t hev it. She said, ‘There hed been Sarahs enough in 
t’ family, and she had chosen Charlotta Victoria , and it would 
be a varry queer thing if a mother couldn’t call her daughter t’ 
name she liked best.’ ” 

Ben laughed sarcastically ; he could net control this expres- 
sion of his opinion. “You women are a queer lot,” he said; 
“ whativer did she want a name like that for ?” 

“Victoria was for t’ queen, thou sees; and Charlotta for 
old Lotta Asketh, who is aunt to Joyce’s mother. Folks think 
as old Lotta lies saved a goodish bit of brass in her little shop; 
and Joyce said ‘she wanted a godmother for her daughter as 
could leave her a hundred pounds or so.’ Lotta Asketh was 
pleased enough ; she bought t’ child a varry fine christening 
dress, and as she’s a Church of England woman, she wanted it 
made a Christian of in t’ parish church. That pleased Joyce, 
too; she said ‘she always thought the Methodys were a little 
low.’ ” 

“ Why didn’t Steve speak up like a man?” 

“ Thou would hev spoken up, I hev no doubt,” answered 
Jane, with a queer look at Ben, “ but Steve isn’t thee. .. is 
varry much under his wife, and when she wouldn’t ask Sarah 
to t’ christening, he had no way to pay Joyce back but to leave 
his work and go off on t’ tramp for a couple o’ days.” 

“ Not ask Sarah to t’ christening ? Why, thou art mistaken, 
sure — ly !” 

“ Nay, I’m not mistaken. Sarah spoke no once to Joyce 
and told her she didn’t care much for hersen , but that Steve 


sarah’s sorrow. 


49 


bed made up liis mind that t’ child should be called after his 
mother ; ‘ and, Joyce,’ said she, ‘ thou ought to do anything and 
give up anything, rather than drive Steve away from his work, 
and into t’ habit of wandering about t’ woods again.’ And 
Joyce answered, ‘ she could manage her husband without any 
of her interference,’ and sharper words followed, and the up- 
shot was, Joyce declared ‘ she’d hev her own way, come what 
would o’ it.’ ” 

“ Was Steve at t’ christening ?” 

“ Why, for sure. He came home on t’ Friday night before 
t’ christening Sunday, and he was that eager to make it up 
with Joyce that he agreed to all she wanted. Lucy Booth was 
at Joyce’s that night, and she told me how hard Steve begged 
to hev Sarah invited, but Joyce said ‘Sarah worrited her,’ and 
her nerves couldn’t stand ‘ worriting ;’ besides, Sarah hadn’t 
sent t’ little lass a present, and there were plenty of friends 
that had done so, to fill t’ house to t’ varry door-step.” 

“Did thou go to t’ christening?” 

“Ay, I went to t’ church, and there was a big party round t’ 
font, and old Lotta Asketh stood up for t’ baby with Joyce’s 
own mother. Old Lotta may leave her a hundred pounds, 
but she’ll niver teach her the Creed and the Collects, not she. 
There’s not a bigger old heathen anywhere than Lotta Asketh.” 

“ Did ta go to t’ christening-feast ?” 

“ Ay, I did. There was a grand spread, I can tell thee ! It 
was a knife-and-fork tea — cold chicken and ham, fatty-cakes 
and cheese-cakes, lemon tartles and sponge -loaves, and spice 
buns, and other oddments; but Lotta put a sovereign in t’ 
baby’s hand, so mebbe it didn’t cost them so varry much, 
after all.” 

“And Sarah wasn’t invited ! I’m fair capp’d ! Is ta sure?” 

“ I’m sure enough ; and that is what she’s fretting about, for 
thou sees she’s a fool over Steve, and pretty nigh as bad over 
Steve’s child. Folks hev talked a deal likewise, and iver since 
christening Steve ’*3s been off in t’ woods. He’s a born rover; 
you’d think he’d come out of a gypsy tent.” 

4 


50 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ He’s a weak, silly, heartless lad, that’s what he is. I won- 
der at Sarah turning a kind word or look his way.” 

“ Ay, but as thou said thysen, Master Holden, women are a 
queer lot. Mebbe it’s a good thing for men that they are so 
queer.” 

“ Get out wi’ thee ! — I mean, go back to thy loom. A man 
wouldn’t be so bad off with thee, happen.” 

Jane laughed, and tossed her pretty head; but Ben did not 
catch the kindly glance she gave him. He was thinking of 
Sarah, and of the ungrateful brother for whom she had sacri- 
ficed so much of her life. Jonathan heard the story with pity 
and indignation. He knew, also, that if Steve was doing badly 
it was all the worse for his own hopes; and lie did think it 
hard that a love as faithful as that he gave Sarah should be 
constantly put behind the weak, wavering, selfish affection 
which Steve only used as a claim upon her generosity or her 
forbearance. 

As for Steve and Joyce, Sarah had forgiven them so much 
that they thought her anger at the christening slight very un- 
reasonable. Joyce, too, soon began to miss her willing hand, 
and also the generosity with which she had ever been ready to 
open her purse towards the small, uncalculated demands inci- 
dental to house-keeping — the half-pound of butter necessary to 
tide over the time before Steve’s wages were due; the little lux- 
ury that an unexpected visitor demanded; the shilling for baby’s 
medicine ; the half-crown short of the rent money. She had 
expected that Sarah would stay away for a week, but when the 
offended girl made no advances towards a reconciliation, Joyce 
felt almost injured by her sister-in-law’s “ unreasonable pride.” 

She spoke freely to her neighbors about Sarah, for she want- 
ed Sarah to know that she was willing to “make it up;” but 
she would not call and tell her so, because she trusted that 
Steve’s and the baby’s influence over her would bring her back 
to the cottage. But Sarah, like all people who are slow to an- 
ger, was stable in her wrath. She had made up her mind to 
go no more to her brother’s house unless she were sent for ; and 


sarah’s sorrow. 


51 


Joyce, having been informed of this decision, was quite sure “it 
would be a varry long time ere she sent after Sarah Benson.” 

So the summer wore unhappily away. Sarah’s friends soon 
understood that she would rather not talk of her brother and 
his wife, and the young couple were never named in her pres- 
ence. “ While all is well,” Sarah thought, “ I am only the third 
wheel on the cart ; and if there should be any change for the 
worse, the news will find me quick enough, I don’t doubt.” 

The news found her only too soon. One night, when she 
came home from her work, Steve was sitting in her room wait- 
ing for her. His appearance gave her a shock. Clothing is so 
much to a man, and Steve’s was dusty and torn and shabby. 
He had lost entirely that air of a spruce, prosperous young 
workman which had set off so well his handsome face and trig, 
slim figure — the tidy suit, the coarse but clean linen, the gay 
neckerchief tied loosely at the throat, with the ends flying - out 
a little at each side. 

“ Sarah, my lass, how is ta? I’m glad to see thy face again.” 

“ I’m well, Steve ; and I’m glad to see thee. How is Joyce 
— and Charlotta Victoria?” 

“ They are badly, varry badly. I hev hed no work for three 
weeks. Thou knows what that means.” 

“ I do that. But whatever is up with thee ? Thou art still 
working at Chorley’s, I hope.” 

“ Na, but I’m not. He’s a mean lot. Didn’t ta hear he hed 
packed me off three weeks since ?” 

“No, I didn’t. Why did he do that, Steve?” 

“ I wish I’d taken thy advice and niver left Burley. Burley 
were always fair to me, and he knew when he’d got a master- 
hand, and didn’t grudge him a day off now and thin in t’ fine 
weather.” 

“ Oh, Steve, Steve ! I’m afeared thou hes been up to thy 
old tricks again — a man with a wife and child, too. It’s too 
bad of thee, it is that ! Thou should think more of them than 
of t’ woods and sea-side. Thou should stick to them summer 
^nd winter ; thou promised to do so.” 


52 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“I know I did; and I kept my word, until Joyce sent me 
off about that unlucky christening. I wanted t’ little lass called 
after thee.” 

“ Don’t lay t’ blame of thy folly to me. Thou knew right 
well that thou could not grieve me worse than by leaving thy 
work and thy home.” 

“ Sarah, can ta lend me a sovereign ?” 

“ Ay, I can, my lad.” 

“Thou art always kind ; I thank thee for it.” 

“ Nobody is more welcome ; but, Steve, thou art not going 
to t’ public-house with it, I hope ?” 

“ Nay, I’m not that bad, Sarah. They are wanting coal and 
bread at home. I’ll get it for them, and then I’m off on t’ 
tramp to-morrow to look for work. I couldn’t get another job 
here, thou knows, with both Burley and Chorley against me. 
Good-by, lass. I’ll go far and long, and niver find as true and 
kind a heart as thine.” 

And Sarah put her arms round his neck and kissed him. 
Then he stumbled down the little wooden stair, and she heard 
his foot-falls die away on the stone pavement outside ; and she 
followed every step with low, broken prayers for a love strong- 
er and wiser than her love to protect and comfort him in all the 
way he should go. 


CHAPTER VI. 
steve’s fair chance. 

“Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind we have a foretaste of eternal 
peace.” 

“ God’s spice we are, and pounding is our due, 

For pounding spice both taste and sense doth please.” 

Hope is something more than a blessing, it is a duty and a 
virtue ; and Jonathan, dimly conscious of this fact, kept his 
heart turned to the light, both as regarded his daughter and 
Sarah Benson. He knew how essential to his own happiness a 
regular, well-established groove of life was; and he thought 
that Eleanor’s restlessness and dissatisfaction might well enough 
arise from the unfamiliarity of the circumstances attending so 
radical a change as marriage. 

The elation and pleasure of her first letters from London de- 
lighted him. Like some brilliant bird of passage, she was flit- 
ting through the charmed circle which hedged in the splendid 
majesty of the throne ; and he felt all the glow of her social 
triumph and all the pleasure of her apparent gratification. But 
the sunshine soon shadowed. In a month she began to com- 
plain. “ Anthony was jealous of her. He grudged her the full 
measure of the joy he had introduced her to. He counted up 
carefully the expenses of the honor she had everywhere done 
him.” Jonathan took no notice of her complaints. He rather 
enlarged upon the unexpected enjoyments that had fallen to 
her lot. He expressed without stint his pride in her, and in 
her position, and he always spoke of Anthony with respect and 
admiration. 

“ Things will rub themselves smooth and right if nobody in- 


54 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


terferes with them,” he thought; and then he called to mind 
several matrimonial cases where things had rubbed themselves 
“ smooth and right.” 

Aske had taken the house in London for three months, and 
the term was rapidly drawing to a close. In the beginning of 
August Eleanor would be at home again, and he began to look 
forward to her arrival with a sense of pleasant expectation. 
One morning he awoke with her name on his lips, and she was 
his first thought as he opened his eyes. It troubled him that 
his heart fell with it. It was a hot, sunny day, and he sent the 
carriage to the park gates, for he determined to walk through 
the grass and under the trees to meet it. He hoped in the 
stillness and solitude to find a peace that had somehow slipped 
away from him in a moment. 

But this was just one of those days which the hyper-sensi- 
tive mind finds aggressive. Nature was so uncompromisingly 
green ; the grass had such an intense color, the foliage of the 
beeches and elms and oaks was so lustrous and positive, the 
vistas of pasture-land so decidedly verdant, that their very cer- 
tainty seemed to repress thought and induce sadness. He tried 
to lift himself into a higher atmosphere — into the blue of 
heaven — but all his efforts were failures ; he had that chill 
presentiment, that stubborn bosom weight, that 

“No philosophy can lift.” 

lie looked anxiously at Ben Holden, who was standing at 
the mill door in his long checked pinafore, with his hands in 
his pockets, and a general air about him of a comfortable satis- 
faction with life. Ben said a cheerful good - morning ; and 
Jonathan perceived that all was right among the frames and 
workers. Then he knew that a fear about Sarah had been at 
least one element of his depression. 

There was a large mail waiting for him, and the topmost 
letter was one from Eleanor. He lifted and laid it aside until 
he had attended to every other communication. He expected 
something disagreeable to come out of that small, smooth, em- 


steye’s fair chance. 


55 


blazoned envelope ; and he was not deceived. Eleanor was in 
debt, and afraid to tell her husband. She accused him of a 
stingy unreasonableness. She said he expected her to visit 
lords and ladies, and yet would not understand that many 
changes of clothing were necessary for such visits. The end 
and sum of the complaint was that she needed five hundred 
pounds to enable her to leave London honorably. 

And Jonathan sent her the five hundred pounds at once, 
though he did not fail to give her with it much salutary advice, 
for running into debt was one of those social sins he found it 
hard, under any circumstances, to excuse. By the next post he 
received his money back, with a sternly polite note from Aske. 
It was evident that Aske had received the letter intended for 
his wife, and that he was exceedingly angry at its contents and 
the revelation of extravagance which it made. 

After all, there was something in Aske’s note which com- 
pelled Jonathan’s respect ; yet he waited in great anxiety Elea- 
nor’s next letter. It was a few lines of passionate rebellion that 
made him wretched. She said Anthony had decided to take 
her to some small German town “to teach her economy and 
self-restraint;” and she added, with a touch of that obstinacy 
which Jonathan understood so well, “ If he thinks to conquer 
Eleanor Aske by isolating her he is very much mistaken.” She 
went to Germany, however, without further resistance, but Aske 
undoubfedly had the worst of the discipline he had planned for 
his wife. She no longer complained, she expressed neither con- 
tent nor discontent, but she convinced him thoroughly that a 
silent woman who does not eat, and who regards life with a 
vacant unconcern that nothing can stir, may be ten times more 
aggravating than the veriest scold. 

Jonathan dreaded to see a letter from her, and yet if letters 
did not come he was restless and anxious, and completely taken 
possession of by the absent child whom he so dearly loved. So 
that, if Sarah had her trials and cares during the miserable sum- 
mer and autumn inaugurated by that unhappy christening, Jona- 
than’s riches did not shield him from very similar ones. Often 


56 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


during their hot, dusty days he stood watching his frames with 
a heavy heart, and thinking — “ full purse or empty purse, the 
weft o’ life comes through a sorrowful shuttle.” 

It was in the early part of June when Steve borrowed the 
first sovereign from Sarah. It had been a little hard for him 
to make that application ; but he felt less at the next one, and 
it soon became a very common thing for his sister to find him 
waiting in her room ; especially on Saturday afternoon, when 
she received her wages. For Steve did not succeed in finding 
work; though he disappeared continually under the pretence 
of looking for it. He would be absent for three or four days, 
perhaps a week, if the weather was fine, and then return hungry 
and penniless, but just as cheerful as if he had been earning his 
living. 

And Joyce, sitting anxious and suffering in her denuded cot- 
tage, was angered by his good-tempered indifference ; and she 
made him feel her anger, in all those unequivocal ways at the 
command of uneducated women. Alas ! she did not understand 
that reproaches never yet brought back the wanderer. For 
though Steve loved his wife and child in his own fashion, his 
home had become an unhappy place, and he found it more 
agreeable to stay away from it than to do his duty and make it 
happy. Unfortunately, too, he began to meet in his tramps 
men of the same nomadic tastes as himself, but with far less 
innocent habits. Sarah trembled when she saw what disrepu- 
table characters lounged at the street-corners waiting for him 
when he paid her his almost regular weekly visit. 

“ Thou wilt surely get into trouble, Steve, if thou goes with 
bad company,” she said, holding his hand — the hand in which 
she had just put half of her wage. “Thou art so simple and 
open-hearted, they’ll make a tool of thee, see if they doan’t ! 
My dear lad, I doan’t like t’ look of that man that is waiting 
for thee.” 

“ He’s a real good fellow, Sarah ; only he’s out of luck, as I 
am. There isn’t a flower nor plant in t’ hedge-row he doesn’t 
know all about. I can tell thee, he is better than many a book.” 


steve’s fair chance. 


57 


“ Still, thou hes no call to share thy money with him. Go 
home to Joyce ; do, my lad.” 

“ Nay, not I ; she’ll hev a scolding waiting for me. I’m 
most sure of work next week at Satterley’s, and then I’ll go to 
Joyce.” 

It was one of Steve’s peculiarities to be always “ most sure ” 
of some good thing “ next week.” And for a long time Sarah 
trusted in him. His open face, his frank speech, his positive 
air of satisfaction, were hard to doubt, especially when she 
didn’t want to doubt them. None are so blind as they who 
will not see, and long after every one in the village was con- 
vinced of Steve’s utter worthlessness Sarah continued to ex- 
pect good from him, and for him. 

But one dreary evening in November the full significance of 
the change which had taken place in her brother’s life was re- 
vealed to her. She had come home from the mill, weary, cold, 
and wet, with a bitter indifference in her heart, for she felt as 
if Happiness had said to her, “No! no! no!” until she was 
full of cold despair. As soon as she entered the door, Martha 
Crossley said to her, “ Here hes been little Polly Sands for thee, 
Sarah. Joyce sent her.” 

“What for?” She was removing her wet shoes, and she 
asked the question listlessly, almost querulously. 

“ Why, I should think Joyce is in trouble of some kind. 
Polly said thou wast to go to Steve’s cottage as soon as iver ta 
could.” 

“ Did Joyce send for me ? Thou knows I said I’d niver cross 
hot door-stone again until she did.” 

“ It isn’t like thee, Sarah, to put ‘ if ’ and ‘ but ’ in t’ way of 
a kindness. Joyce sent for thee, but happen it is God’s mes- 
sage, too, my lass. Thou’lt niver say ‘ No,’ I’m sure.” 

Sarah was crying softly ; she could not have said exactly 
why. 

“ Take a drink o’ tea — it’s ready for thee, and make thy feet 
dry, and then go thy ways. I’ll warrant thou will n’t be sorry 
for it.” 


58 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ Ay, I’ll go, Martha ” — and having determined to be gener- 
ous, she made haste to be so. In half an hour she stood with- 
in the familiar house-place. A pitiful sight met her. Its best 
furniture was all gone. There was no fire on the hearth. There 
was no bread in the cupboard, and Joyce, who was fretful with 
want and anxiety, was scolding the child crying with hunger on 
her knee. 

“Thou hes wished me ill iver since thy brother married me, 
Sarah Benson. Now, then, I hev sent for thee to see what thy 
ill wishes hev brought me to.” 

Sarah’s heart was too full of pity to be angry at the unreason- 
able woman. She lifted the weeping child, and said, “ Nay, 
then, Joyce, I am thy true friend. What can I do for thee?” 

“Get Lotta some bread and milk; t’ little lass is fair starv- 
ing. I’m well used to clemming lately, and I can bear it bet- 
ter.” 

Sarah had but a few shillings in her pocket, but she spent them 
freely ; and she did not go away until she had made a good 
fire, and seen mother and child sleeping, after a full meal. 
During it, Joyce’s complaints revealed, without extenuation, 
the dangerous condition into which her brother had fallen. In 
this confidence all foolish pride vanished, and the two women, 
completely reconciled, consulted heartily as to the best way of 
bringing Steve back to steady work and steady habits. Steady 
work was the first step, and Sarah determined to go to Jona- 
than Burley and ask it for him. 

It was a painful step for Sarah to take, and in the morning 
it appeared twice as difficult, for she was under the tyranny of 
the weather. Monotonous rain filled the air, and saddened and 
weakened her. The conflict for bare existence, begun before 
daylight every morning, seemed on this morning almost too 
hard to bear. She lifted her little tin can and started for the 
mill. There' was a long string of workers before her, and the 
clattering of their clogs upon the stone pavements hurt her in 
every nerve. Ben Holden was at the gates, but she did not 
speak to him, until the looms stopped for breakfast at* eight 


steve’s fair chance. 


59 


o’clock. Then she said, “ Ben Holden, I want to speak to t’ 
master to-day.” 

“ There’s nobody will hinder thee. Is ta in trouble, Sarah ?” 

“ Ay, above a bit. It’s about Steve. I hev prayed, and I 
hev better prayed to God, to keep him in t’ right road, and it 
seems like he is letting t’ poor lad get varry far out of it.” 

“ Don’t thee reckon to know so much. God lets us go from 
one side of t’ road to t’ other and act a good deal as it pleases 
wersens ; but we are fast tethered to his hand , after all, my lass ; 
and when we think we are carrying out our own wills, we are 
carrying out his will too ; and we find wersens in t’ place he 
wanted us sooner than we thought for.” 

“ It is all a muddle, Ben. I feel varry near broken-hearted 
this morning.” 

“Nay, nay, my lass! Thou mustn’t speak in that fashion. 
And there is nothing mends sooner than a broken heart, if it 
be a good heart. Thou lied better see Burley about thy broth- 
er. T’ master will do right; ay, he will that, whether he wants 
to do it or not.” 

About ten o’clock Sarah left her loom and went to Jonathan’s 
office. She was the last person whom he expected to see there; 
and when he said “ Come in,” in response to her knock, he did 
not turn to see to whom he had spoken. 

“ I’m in trouble, and I hev come to you, master.” 

He lifted his head and looked pitifully at her. 

“ I’m in trouble, too, Sarah, and I hev been thinking about 
going to my Master with it; only, a woman’s quarrelling and 
Hatching is such a thing to trouble him with. Yet, as he made 
women, he’ll know how to deal with ’em, if any one does. But 
I’m not thinking of thee, dear lass. How can I help thee?” 

“ I want thee to take Steve back.” 

“ Nay, nay ; I can’t do that. If thou was my own dear wife, 
and asked me to do that thing, I would say * No ’ to thee.” 

“ It isn’t for my sake, sir. Oh no ; not for my sake. Steve 
is going down t’, road to hell as fast as drink and idleness can 
take him there. Nothing but steady work can give him another 


60 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


chance. Master, is he to hev t’ chance ? Not for my sake, mas- 
ter. I’ll stand behind thee, so thou can’t see me. It’s between 
thee and tha’ conscience, now.” 

“Oh, Sarah! Sarah!” 

“ Not for my sake, master, for Christ’s sake, will ta give Steve 
another chance ?” 

“ Ay, I will. Twenty chances — seventy times seven chances ! 
Go, my lass, tell him to come back and do his duty, and oh, 
Sarah ! I thank thee — I thank thee for coming.” 

He stood up, and raised his face full of confidence and light. 
In a moment — in the twinkling of an eye, one of those myste- 
rious confidences which pass between souls and the Father of 
Spirits had lifted him into the sunshine. In the act of doing 
good, a token for good had been granted to him also. 

In the enthusiasm of the action he had quite forgotten him- 
self — quite forgotten Sarah. To do His will , on earth, even as 
it is done in heaven ! That was the pure and perfect joy that 
satisfied his soul for the moment. Sarah understood the spir- 
itual exaltation, and she slipped away ere he could mar the 
gracious act by any thought of earthly approval or reward. She 
did not go back to work. Ben Holden was in the yard, and 
she said to him, “ Thou must let me off to-day. I’m none fit 
for my loom.” 

“ Why-a ! Whativer’s t’ matter with thee ? T’ master iiiver 
said ‘ no ’ to thy question ?” 

“ He said 1 yes ’ with all his heart. He’s a good man. I 
want to find Steve and tell him t’ news; and there is Joyce, 
poor lass ! It would be selfish-like in me not to see her as soon 
as iver I could get there.” 

“ Go thy ways, Sarah Benson. If there were more women 
like thee, there wouldn’t be so many bad husbands.” 

“Don’t thee say that. Why should men lay their sins on 
any poor woman ? They take their own ill way, most of t’ time. 
It ’ud be just as fair to say, if all men were like thee and t’ 
master, there would be no bad wives.” 

lie had opened the gates as they were talking, and he let 


steve’s fair chance. 


61 


her through with a smile. “ There’s a deal o’ something better 
than human nature in men and women,” he thought ; but ere 
the thought was well formed, it was lost in the necessity for 
giving Lot Yates “a bit of his mind,” for Lot had a deal of 
something worse than human nature in him, and was beating 
his horses unmercifully. 

In spite of the rain and murky fog full of bits of coal-dust 
and burned flakes of carbon, in spite of the gutters running 
with black water, in spite of the sodden, slipshod men and 
women, Sarah trod the miserable lanes with a light heart. She 
hastened to Steve’s cottage, though she had little hope of see- 
ing him there. Still, Joyce could be comforted, and perhaps 
some one found who, knowing where Steve was, would go after 
him. Ere she opened the door, the shrill voice of Joyce, raised 
in loud, querulous tones, was audible enough ; and when she 
entered, the sight that met her eyes was a painful one. Steve, 
wet, ragged, and perfectly reckless-looking, was standing upon 
the hearth-stone, and the once pretty Joyce, almost equally rag- 
ged, and in a violent passion, was railing at him in unmeasured 
terms of reproach and indignation. As Sarah entered, she turned 
to her, “ Ay, come thy ways in, and look at thy brother. Did 
ta iver see a bigger vagabond than he is ? Here he’s back home 
again, and without work, and without a penny ; and thou knows 
t’ little one and I were pretty well clemmed to death when thou 
got us a bit o’ bread and meat last night. We were that !” 

“ Steve, my dear lad.” 

“ Sarah, lass, I’m glad to see thee.” 

“ I hev brought thee good news, Steve. Joyce, be quiet now ; 
all is going to be right and happy again. Master Burley says, 
‘Tell Steve to come back to his loom.’ Thou can start to- 
morrow morn, Steve.” 

Joyce threw her apron over her head, and began to cry softly 
— tears of hope and relief. Steve stood sullen and silent, glanc- 
ing first at Sarah and then at his worn-out shoes and ragged 
clothes. She understood his thought. She even divined the 
kind of repugnance he felt to go back at all to daily work, es- 


62 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


pecially among the old comrades whom he had so pridefully 
deserted, and she put her hand on his wet, ragged coat-sleeve, 
and said, soothingly, “ Thou art tired out, and no wonder. Go 
up-stairs to thy bed, and I’ll make thee a bit of warm breakfast; 
and then thou can sleep for twenty hours, if ta likes to.” 

“ How can I go back to Burley’s in such a rig as this?” and 
he lifted his foot, and looked almost pathetically at his muddy 
suit of rags. 

“ Hesn’t ta a better suit ?” 

“ Ay, there is one at Jonas Hardcastle’s. What good is that, 
though ?” 

“ Hes ta t’ ticket for it?” 

“ Joyce hes it.” 

“ Varry well. I’ll see after things. Thee go to thy bed, and 
sleep off t’ weariness. I’ll not let thee go back to Burley’s in 
dirt and rags ; thou can be sure o’ that.” 

“ There’s few lasses as trustable as thee, Sarah. I’m fail- 
beat out, and I’ll be thankful to hev a bit o’ meat and a bit o’ 
peace.” 

In half an hour coffee was boiling, and bacon frying, and a 
comfortable breakfast was soon ready for the tired wanderer. 
“ Now, Joyce, dear lass, take it up-stairs to him, and give him a 
kiss with it. Thou must make up thy mind to put up with a 
deal, and to forgive and forget a deal, but Steve is most like t’ 
prodigal in t’ New Testament, and thou must go and meet him. 
Do, lass ! do, lass — for Lotta’s sake !” 

“ Bible folks are Bible folks, Sarah. I niver got religion, yet, 
and I can’t frame mysen to act like them. I’m angry at Steve, 
and I hev reason — ” 

“To be sure thou hest reasons, plenty o’ them. But come, 
Joyce, t’ coffee is getting cold and t’ bacon ; take them up-stairs 
to Steve, take them kindly, do ! All depends on thee, after all. 
I am going now to get his best suit home.” 

Into the rain and gloom she went, and when she returned, 
with the suit in her arms, Joyce and Steve were eating together 
as happy as two children who had just “ made up ” a quarrel. 


STEVE’S FAIR CHANCE. 


63 


Steve was then ready to make any promise the two women 
wanted ; and, after a happy hour with them, he was left to sleep 
in the darkened room. Then new shoes had to be bought for 
him, and Sarah went for them ; for the rest, she was hard at 
work till late at night, patching, washing, and ironing. She had 
her reward, however, for next morning, when Steve called for 
her, he was as clean and tidy as a good workman ought to be. 

It was something of a trial for him to return to his old place, 
and Sarah expected he would have to bear many an unpleasant 
look and gibe. She knew also that Steve was on the alert for 
offence, and a man in that condition is very apt to get what he 
is looking for. She dreaded the dinner-hour. The rude jokes, 
so natural to the men and women, and so pleasantly given and 
taken as a general thing, had always riled Steve’s sensitive nat- 
ure, and she felt that he was in precisely that temper which ap- 
propriates and resents the most innocent freedoms. 

As twelve o’clock approached she became heart-sick with 
fear; but a few minutes before it the master entered the room. 
He walked straight to Steve’s loom, and every eye was upon 
him. Sarah’s hands trembled, her face flushed, and then turned 
deadly pale, and she could not help but watch the meeting, 
upon which so much depended. 

But if she had known Jonathan better she would have been 
sure that his visit meant kindness. In fact, the master, having 
been himself a “ hand,” knew pretty well the drift of Steve’s 
fears and feelings; nor had he forgotten the gantlet of the 
noon hour’s mirth which Steve might have to run. Ben Hol- 
den had said, “ Let him have it. It will do him good. He will 
hear some plain truths that happen he’ll hear nowhere else.” 
Jonathan thought differently. “ Gibing at a man’s faults never 
yet helped to cure them. It is better to trust than to mock, thou 
may depend upon it, Ben,” he answered. 

For, to do a half-kindness, to give a reproachful forgiveness, 
to season favor with punishment, these were things Jonathan 
Burley could not do. He had forgiven Steve, forgiven him 
freely, and he meant to give him a fair chance in every way. 


64 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


So, in the sight of all, he walked straight to Steve’s loom. “I 
am glad to see thee at thy place again, Steve Benson.” He 
said the words plainly and heartily ; and those who could not 
hear them saw the pleasant look on his face, and saw him put 
out his hand and give the renegade worker a hearty welcome 
back. 

Undoubtedly Jonathan had a thought of Sarah also in this 
kind deed.. . None of our motives ring clear through every 
depth, and he knew well that any scorn or offence offered to 
Steve would hurt Steve’s sister in a double measure. As he 
turned from the young man he glanced at Sarah. Her face 
was radiant. Her eyes like two stars. No words could have 
thanked him as well. Her evident joy went to his heart like 
sunshine. He colored brightly in his pleasure, and went out of 
the room, for that hour, at least, a thoroughly happy man. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Eleanor’s flight. 

“And love the offender, yet detest the offence.” 

Pope. 

“His rod revers’d, 

And backward mutters of dissevering power.” 

Milton. 

“ A generous friendship no cold medium knows, 

Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.” 

Pope. 

In the serenity and light of that one loving deed Jonathan 
went joyfully many days. He said no more to Steve, and he 
did not speak to Sarah, but Steve felt his good-will, and Sarah 
sung at her work, and looked happy and hopeful again. As it 
drew near to Christmas, Eleanor wrote confidently of her return 
to Yorkshire; and as she made fewer complaints, Jonathan 
trusted she was beginning to find that peace was better than 
strife. 

But while the Askes were lingering in Paris, Eleanor gave 
birth to her first child, and the necessary delay was prolonged 
by the sudden death of the babe three weeks afterwards, and 
by the immoderate grief of the mother, causing a somewhat 
dangerous relapse in her own condition. Anthony’s sorrow and 
disappointment was also great, but it was modified by some 
considerations which the bereaved mother could not take into 
account. The boy had been born on French soil ; it was al- 
most a calamity in Anthony’s eyes for the heir of Aske to be 
anything but “ born Yorkshire.” Such a thing had never hap- 
pened before in all the records of the house, and he could not 
help regarding the child as in some measure a foreigner. Of 
5 


G6 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


course, Eleanor could not be blamed consistently for such an 
untoward event, and yet he felt as if it was a part of the con- 
tradiction of her nature, and that in some way or other she was 
responsible for the thwarting of his hopes. 

Nor was Aske’s sentiment one peculiar to himself. The news 
of his grandson’s birth gave Jonathan, at the moment of its in- 
telligence, a thrill of the proudest gratification ; but his very 
next feeling had been one of chagrin that the boy had not been 
born in the stately home of which he was the heir. Still, his 
elation was so manifest that Ben Holden did not scruple to say, 
“Thou holds thy head high this morning, Jonathan. What lies 
lifted thee up so?” 

“I am a grandfather, Ben. Mistress Aske hes a fine son.” 

“ I am right glad it’s a boy.” 

“So am I. My word! Won’t Aske be proud? And sure 
enough, there’s Aske’s church-bells ringing ! They’ll hev got 
the news, too. Poor little chap, to be born in France, of all 
places in t’ world !” 

“ Ay, it’s a pity. Aske won’t like it, thou may be sure o’ 
that. Some women, nay, I may well say all women, are so con- 
trary.” 

“ If there was an earthquake, thou would blame women for 
it, Ben. It sounds spiteful in thee. Thou hed a right good 
mother, and two good sisters, I’m sure.” 

“Ay, I hed; but their kind aren’t common.” 

“Be quiet, will ta? They are common enough. Don’t thee 
set thysen up to think thou hed t’ only good mother and sis- 
ters. Other men hev been just as lucky as thou wert. f There’s 
good women in ivery family, and if there’s a bad one, like as 
not she’s a good one that hes been spoiled by some bad man’s 
mismanagement. \ I’ll hev to be an out-and-out infidel before I 
lose my faith i’ good women, Ben.” 

“Let t’ subject drop, Jonathan. Thee and me hes other 
things more important to talk about. There’s them white 
yarns Jeremiah Wade sent — they ought to be sent back to 
him.” 


Eleanor’s flight. 


67 


“ Then send ’em back ; and see here, shut up t’ mill at twelve 
o’clock, and tell t’ hands I’ll add half a crown to ivery one’s 
wage this week, for the sake of t’ grandson. Bless his soul ! 
though he is half a foreigner, we must give him a welcome.” 

In rather less than three weeks the heir of Aske was dead, 
and regrets of all kinds were such a very mockery that no one 
spoke them. It was understood that the squire was coming 
home as soon as his lady was fit to travel, and the local papers 
made constant allusions to the preparations in progress for 
their return. One day, towards the end of January, Jonathan 
was singularly restless. It was not any business anxiety that 
made him so, for such troubles induced always a kind of quiet 
self-concentration. He knew that it was an undefined worry 
about his daughter that disturbed him, and he left the mill 
early, went home and dressed, and then ordered his carriage for 
Aske Hall. 

His presentiment had been in some measure a true one. 
Aske and his wife had arrived during the afternoon, and as he 
entered the large and lofty vestibule he saw Anthony coming 
down the great stairway in dinner dress. Small and slight as 
he was, Jonathan could not help being struck with his aristo- 
cratic appearance : he had the manner of a man accustomed to 
the highest peaks of social life, mingled with that calm confi- 
dence which comes from inherited considerations. The two 
men met with sincere emotion and kindness. “ I am particu- 
larly glad to see you, sir,” said Anthony. “ I have sent a groom 
to Burley House with the news of our arrival, but he has hard- 
ly had time to get there.” 

“ Nay, I didn’t see him. I came on my own order. How 
is Eleanor, poor lass ?” 

“ Still weak and fretting. She has been longing to see you.” 

They had been approaching the drawing-room as they spoke, 
and when Anthony opened the door Burley saw his daughter 
ere she had any idea of his presence. The glance filled him 
with pity. She was dressed in deep mourning, and she lay 
back wearily in a large chair, with her eyes closed and her 


68 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


hands dropped listlessly upon her lap. Her sombre garments 
made the pallor of her face more conspicuous, and Jonathan’s 
eyes were full of tears when he took her to his breast and kissed 
her. 

Yet they had a very pleasant dinner. Aske had much to 
tell, and he told it well, and Eleanor diversified his narration 
by her comments. And while they were still at the table, sev- 
eral gentlemen who had heard of the squire’s arrival called and 
joined them, and Eleanor’s pale face gathered color and her 
eyes light, and she said, with an emphasis which delighted all, 
that “ she was glad to be home, and thought no other place 
half so beautiful.” 

About eleven o’clock there was quite a merry gathering in 
the great entrance-hall, where a big fire was sending banners 
of flame dancing up the wide chimney. Horses and gigs and 
carriages were being brought from the stables, and the visitors 
stood, hats in hand, chatting gayly of the coming “ hunts” and 
balls and dinners, of their pleasure in Mrs. Aske’s return, reit- 
erating congratulations and compliments. 

Jonathan watched his daughter closely as she stood on the 
rug of skins with one foot on the stone fender, and the blazing 
fire throwing fitful lights and shadows over her beautiful face 
and tall, black-robed figure. There was a pathos and languor 
about her which he had never noticed before, and which might 
be the result of her sickness and her mourning dress, or might 
spring from a heart weary with contention, accepting a fate 
which it deprecated, but could no longer resist. 

“But I’ll not meddle nor make in Aske’s affairs,” he thought, 
as he was driven rapidly home. “ I’ll not say to Eleanor, ‘ Is 
ta happy ?’ or ‘ Is ta no happy ?’ I’ll never put a question to 
her. She looked sad enough, but then a woman that hes lost 
her first baby can’t look as if she lied it in her arms. It isn’t 
to be expected.” 

He thought it best, upon the whole, not to go too often to 
Aske Hall, and to make his visits there at those ceremonial din- 
ners when there was much company, and its domestic life was 


Eleanor’s flight. 


69 


hid behind its social obligations. But Jonathan knew his daugh- 
ter’s peculiarities, and even in the atmosphere of feasting, and 
amid the ripple of conversation, love has quick eyes. He saw 
below the surface, and he divined the heart-burnings and dis- 
appointments which he would scarcely admit or give a name to, 
even in his inmost consciousness. 

One night in March — a cold, clear, frosty night — he was sit- 
ting alone by his fireside. His dinner had been highly satisfac- 
tory, and he was serenely smoking his second pipe. The thought 
in his heart was Sarah Benson. He could see that his last effort 
to save Steve had not been altogether successful. During the 
Christmas week the restless man had renewed his old habits, 
and ever since the hard struggle to keep him at work had been 
manifest to Jonathan in Sarah’s anxious face. That very day 
Steve’s loom had been silent and vacant, and though he had 
taken no notice of the fact, Sarah’s downcast eyes, and the hot 
flush that suffused her face when he entered the room, told him 
how severely she felt the shame of Steve’s absence. 

As he sat still, he was wondering what was the best thing to 
do in the case, for he had no thought of giving it up. Had he 
not said, “ until seventy times seven ?” And he knew well that, 
before he could hope to bring Sarah to his own home, there 
must be some certain prospect for the brother whom she con- 
ceived herself bound to watch over, not only because she loved 
him, but because she had kissed the promise to do so upon her 
mother’s dying lips. 

The room was still and light, its atmosphere such as befitted 
the handsome, thoughtful, middle-aged man, sitting so calmly 
smoking amid its manifold luxuries. Suddenly the door was 
quickly opened, and Eleanor, in a passion of weeping, flung 
herself at his feet, and laying her hand on his breast, sobbed 
out, “ Oh, father ! father! father! Anthony — struck me !” 

Then Jonathan dashed his pipe upon the hearth, and shat- 
tered it to pieces. He raised the weeping woman in his arms, 
and he whispered fiercely below his breath, “ I’ll horsewhip him 
for it !” 


70 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


The natural man, and the unpolished, uneducated man, assert- 
ed himself at this crisis, and would not listen to reason. “ Go 
thee back to thy old rooms,” he said, sternly ; “ thou shalt niver 
enter Aske Ilall again. If that is t’ way fine gentlemen treat a 
woman like thee, why, they won’t try it twice on my lass, that’s 
all about it.” 

If Aske had struck him he could have borne it better ; for, 
as he told himself, “ I would hev given him such a threshing as 
would hev brought him down to his right place varry quick.” 
But he could imagine no circumstance which would excuse such 
an outrage on his daughter. 

When he came to his breakfast-table in the morning Eleanor 
was waiting for him. She looked so sweet and fair that it was 
delightful to see her again making out his coffee ; and he felt 
his heart thrill with a fierce sense of triumph over his son-in- 
law. 

“Whatever did ta do to him, Eleanor, to make him lift his 
hand to thee ?” he asked. 

Her bright ^yes scintillated, and with a shrug of her shoul- 
ders, she looked steadily at her father, and answered with an 
inimitable air of mockery, “/ laughed at him,” And under 
the fascination of her eyes and manner Jonathan set down his 
cup, and echoed the laugh whose image was on her face. Ho 
might have then understood how a man of Anthony Aske’s 
passionate temper had been laughed into an irritation that was 
almost irresponsible.’ But he would not permit himself to lis- 
ten to any suggestion that would excuse Aske’s offence. 

After reading his mails at the mill he called in Ben Holden. 
“ Ben,” he said, as he planted himself squarely on the hearth- 
rug — “ Ben, my daughter came back to me last night.” 

“ Does ta mean she hes left her husband ?” 

“ Ay, I do.” 

Ben walked to the window and looked out. After a min- 
ute’s reflection, he turned to Burley and said, “ Send her home, 
Jonathan.” 

“ I’ll not. Why — a — Aske struck her !” 


Eleanor’s flight. 


71 


“ I’ll be bound she deserved it.” 

For in Ben’s opinion Aske bad committed no very heinous 
offence. Englishmen had a legal right to chastise their disobe- 
dient wives ; and if Solomon had extended the rod to them as 
well as to the children, Ben would have had a much higher 
opinion of him as the wisest of men. 

“ Still, I say, send her home,” he added. 

“ Thou may give good counsel, but I’m none fool enough to 
take it.” 

“ Mind this, Burley, them that pick a quarrel wi’ Aske will 
get more than they bargain for. The Askes are a fell lot. 
Squire Anthony is little, but ivery bit o’ that little is Aske.” 

“ I hev a good cause to quarrel wi’ him.” 

“ Thou art angry now, and thou is telling lies to thysen. 
Leisure a bit, and see what Aske will say about his wife. I’ll 
warrant he hed a good cause to quarrel wi’ her.” 

“ I won’t ; not I.” 

“ Thou won’t do right, and thou won’t take wrong. Yarry 
well. Thou is ravelling a bonny hank for thysen to loosen. Of 
course, thou is big enough to give Aske a threshing, if ta likes 
to do it ; but in ivery other way Aske is far more than a match 
for thee.” 

“ That is to try yet.” 

“ Dear me ! N They say when owt goes wrong i’ families the 
devil blesses himsen ; he would be busy enough last night. Is 
ta going ta keep him busy ? Take my advice now, if ta nivcr 
takes it again, and send Mistress Aske to her own home. Thou 
hes no business at all to harbor her.” 

“ Ilevn’t I ? We’ll try that. I won’t send her home, niver !” 

“ Then send for Aske and hev it out wi’ him. I’ll be bound 
he’s varry little to blame.” 

“ I won’t do it.” 

“Then write for him.” 

“ Not I — not a line.” 

“ Then tak’ thy own way. What did ta ask me about it for? 
Did ta think because I took thy wages I would tell thee to do 


72 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


what is both wrong and foolish ? Thou might hev known Ben 
Holden better.” 

“ Don’t thee quarrel wi’ me now, Ben. I hev trouble enough 
without that one.” 

“ Say no more, Jonathan. Thou art sure to do right in t’ 
long run. Did ta notice Steve Benson was away again yes- 
terday ?” 

“Ay, I did. I don’t know whativer’s to be done to save t’ 
lad. If thou art spoiling to be giving good advice, Steve is 
needing it badly, Ben ; and happen he’ll take it better than 
me.” 

The quarrel between Anthony and his wife had risen about 
such a trifle as the wearing of a sapphire necklace ; but, as it 
usually happens, the apparent trifle represented things far more 
important. On that night they were going to Squire Bash- 
poole’s to dinner. The squire was Anthony’s uncle on his 
mother’s side, and before his marriage Aske had been a very 
frequent visitor at Bashpoole Manor House, and there had been 
a general opinion that he intended to marry his cousin, Jane 
Bashpoole. That young lady had also been a great favorite 
with Anthony’s mother, and had understood from her that she 
was to inherit the sapphire set which was among the Aske 
jewels. 

But if Anthony had one opinion about the estate more fixed 
and prominent than any other, it was the idea of keeping intact 
whatever belonged to Aske as a family property. Of the house, 
the land, the timber, the plate, the jewels, he was only a stew- 
ard for those who should succeed him. The young lady’s claim 
was no clearer than a supposition, grounded probably upon her 
own strong desire; and Squire Bashpoole thoroughly agreed with 
his nephew in his reluctance to alienate any portion of the fam- 
ily belongings. And though “Cousin Jane” had been pre- 
vailed upon to accept a similar necklace as a gift from Cousin 
Anthony, she still felt the Aske sapphires to be a painful sub- 
ject ; and it had required tact, as well as generosity, on Antho- 
ny’s part to atone for his apparent niggardliness. 


Eleanor’s flight. 


73 


Indiscretion was not one of Anthony’s failings, but it had 
happened that in some hour of post-nuptial confidence the 
young husband had told Eleanor of the dispute. Perhaps he 
hoped the knowledge would induce her to forego the pleasure 
of wearing them under circumstances when they would be like- 
ly to annoy the disappointed claimant. The hope was neither 
extravagant nor unnatural, and hitherto Eleanor had scrupulous- 
ly regarded it. But on that unfortunate day a series of small 
domestic annoyances had wrought her into a most provoking 
mood of mingled mockery and defiance. When she was near- 
ly dressed Anthony came to hurry her movements, and, as men 
are apt to do, he enforced his wishes with a sweeping condem- 
nation of the unpunctuality and unreliability of women. 

Her jewel-case was open, and on the topmost tray the sap- 
phire set sparkled. Her eyes fell upon it as Anthony spoke, 
and the devil prompted her answer, “ I am ready if you will 
clasp my necklace.” 

“ Not that, Eleanor! Not that necklace, certainly !” 

“ I intend to wear this and no other.” 

“ I have told you that my cousin Jane wanted it.” 

“ Very impertinent and greedy of her !” 

“ And to wear it to Bashpoole would be an insult, not only 
to her, but also to my uncle and aunt.” 

“ Nevertheless, I shall wear it.” 

“You shall not.” 

“ I beg your pardon, I shall !” 

She stood defiantly before him in her rich black satin gown, 
with the glinting stones in her hand. Her beauty was so com- 
pelling, his admiration of her so deep, and his love for her so 
great, that almost under any other circumstances he would 
have acknowledged her right to order her own toilet. But he 
could not insult his nearest kin and lose the friendship of two 
generations for the wearing of a necklace, and he told her so in 
plain and positive terms. 

She answered him by a scornful mimicry of the words , 11 my 
cousin Jane!” and a ripple of contemptuous laughter. Then 


74 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


she lifted the jewels to her white throat herself, and Anthony 
caught her hands and took them from her. This act of au- 
thority was followed by an angry dispute, and finally Eleanor 
declared that Aske had struck her hand, and she lifted the sap- 
phires and flung them from her with passionate hate and scorn. 
They were scattered hither and thither, and Anthony, troubled 
beyond measure at the whole dispute, stooped to gather up the 
precious fragments. In that interval Eleanor went down-stairs, 
and finding the carriage waiting, entered it, and gave the order 
“ to Burley House.” 

At first his wife’s escapade did not much trouble him. He 
sent an apology to Bashpoole, and sat down in his private par- 
lor to calm and collect his thoughts. On the return of the 
coachman he was satisfied that she had gone to her father, and 
he believed Jonathan Burley would at once bring her back to 
her home and duty. When it got so late that he was forced to 
abandon this hope for the night, he still never thought of blam- 
ing Jonathan. He supposed that Eleanor had been either too 
sick or too angry to reason with, and that he had judged it bet- 
ter for all parties to “take counsel of their pillows.” 

All the next day he walked restlessly about, listening to every 
footstep, straining his eyes to catch the first sight of Jonathan’s 
carriage coming through the park. When the night fell he 
could hardly believe in the disappointment of the day. That 
his wife would really desert him and go back to her father was 
too improbable, too dreadful an idea to even give form to. It 
did indeed creep like an icy, black shadow across his thoughts 
at intervals, but he put it angrily and positively away. A dis- 
grace of that kind he felt it impossible to contemplate; besides, 
he loved Eleanor. Uneasy as life was with her, it would be in- 
tolerably empty without her. 

Another day went anxiously by in watching, waiting, hoping, 
and fearing. He began to be angry with Burley. If he was 
unable to make his daughter do right, he thought he should 
have come to Aske and discussed the situation with him. The 
third day he could endure the suspense no longer. He wrote 


Eleanor’s flight. 


V5 


to Eleanor and sent a groom with the letter, directing him to 
wait for the answer. The letter was short, but very much to 
the purpose : 

“My dear Wife, — Will you please to return home at your 
earliest convenience ? If you will tell Simmonds when you will 
be ready, I will come with the carriage for you. 

“Your loyal husband, 

“ Anthony Aske.” 

The few words touched the recreant wife. She knew how 
much Anthony must have suffered ere he condescended to write 
them, and her heart went out to meet her husband. Now, when 
a woman is led by her heart she is very seldom led wrong. 
Eleanor’s first instinct was to sit down and write, “Come at 
once, dear Anthony.” But, instead of obeying it, she began to 
reason, and so got to floundering in a quagmire of suppositions. 

She told herself that this was a crisis in her matrimonial af- 
fairs, and that if she “ gave in ” too easily, the whole battle 
might be to fight over again. She concluded that if Aske loved 
her well enough to humble himself so far, he would go further; 
far enough, indeed, to render his future subservience to her 
will a certainty. An answer which would bring about such a 
desirable result was difficult to compose. No answer was bet- 
ter than a blundering one, for silence neither asked too much 
nor surrendered too much. She resolved upon it. 

“There is no answer,” said a servant to the waiting groom ; 
but oh ! what a sad, troubled face watched him galloping down 
the long avenue with the unkind message. If Anthony could 
only have seen the wistful eyes with their one great tear welling 
from their troubled depths, he would have needed no other mes- 
sage. “ No answer, sir.” The words smote him like a buffet, 
and brought the hot blood into his face, and made his heart 
tremble. He had no idea of such persistence of angry temper 
in Eleanor, and he felt sure that her father was encouraging her 
disobedience. 

So he wrote to Burley. He explained the cause of dispute, 


76 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


and requested him to send his daughter back to Aske without 
further delay; “it would avoid trouble and scandal.” Jona- 
than always answered his letters promptly and fully, and he 
went round no bush with his son-in-law. 

“Eleanor has been unhappy for nearly two years,” he said. 
“ She has come back to my house for shelter and protection* 
and, please God, I’ll give it to her as long as I have a roof to 
cover her, or an arm to shield her. A man that will strike a 
woman isn’t fit to live with a woman ; and by what I can hear 
and understand, my lass was struck for a very little thing. It 
is a poor go if she can’t dress herself as she wants to, and it al- 
ways seemed to me as if she did her duty uncommon well that 
way. I never asked her to come home, far from it; but I won’t 
turn her out of her old home, nor I won’t send her back to 
Aske. That’s all about it, and I am thine as thou wishes it, 

“Jonathan Burley.” 

On the receipt of this letter, Aske rode over to Burley Mills 
at once. The interview began badly. He offered his hand on 
entering, and Jonathan refused it. 

“ Nay,” he said, “ I’d rather not. It’s happen t’ varry hand 
that struck my Eleanor.” 

“ Let me explain, sir.” 

“ For sure — if ta can.” 

Then Aske went over the whole story of the sapphires ; add- 
ing that, in the climax of the dispute he might have struck his 
wife’s hand. “ She said so, but he was too much excited to be 
certain of anything; and, indeed, he was inclined to think they 
were both without clear recollection of what passed.” 

“ I don’t think any better of thee, Aske, for trying to sneak 
out of a fault that-a-way. It would be a deal more manly to say, 
* I struck my wife when I was in a passion, and I’m ’shamed of 
mysen for it.’ And, let me tell thee, thou hast far o’ermuch to 
say about thy cousin, Jane Bashpoole. It’s likely thy wife is a 
bit jealous of her, and Eleanor’s feelings ought to be more to 
thee than thy cousin Jane’s and all of t’ Bashpoole lot together.” 


Eleanor’s flight. 


77 


“ I made what apology seemed most truthful to me, Burley ; 
and I am the last man in the world to sneak out of any quarrel. 
If you push me too far you will find that out.” 

“ Thou can’t frighten me, Aske.” 

“I don’t want to frighten you. Will you send my wife 
home ?” 

“ Nay, then I won’t !” 

“You are harboring a wrong, sir ; and I could force you to 
do right.” 

“Could ta? Do it, then. I’m harboring thy wife. If she’s 
‘ a wrong,’ thou made her one. And as for forcing me to do 
anything I don’t want to do, try it. Thou will find thou lies 
got t’ wrong bull by t’ horns.” 

“ I say your conduct is shameful, sir ; ungentlemanly and 
unfatherly.” 

“ I say thou art a liar. I say it again and again ! Strike me 
with that whip thou art fingering if ta dares to. I’ll break it 
to bits ooer thee if ta does.” 

Fortunately, at this juncture Ben Holden entered. In fact, 
Ben had been hanging round, fearful of the very thing which 
had happened, and quite determined at all risks to save his 
friend from disgracing himself by a physical attack on a man 
little more than half his size and weight. He put his hand on 
Jonathan’s shoulder, and said, “Master Burley, mind what thou 
art doing. Squire, will ta be kind enough to take thy sen away 
as soon as possible ? It will be t’ best for both of you.” 

“One word more, Burley — send my wife home.” 

“ She was my daughter long before she was thy wife ; she 
shall stay with me if she wants to.” 

At these words Aske left the room. He was white as ashes, 
but no one could doubt the enmity and rage which he veiled 
beneath his calm exterior. “He is in for a hard fight, Jona- 
than,” said Ben ; “ and I’m feared we are none able for him.” 

“ Fight, indeed ! There’s none in him.” 

“Thou wilt find out thou art much mistaken. They will 
need to liev long arms that fight Aske, and a long patience, and 


78 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


a long purse. T’ Askes hev been in Airedale since King Ste- 
phen’s time, and nobody iver got the better of them yet.” 

“ Wheniver there is a Job in trouble, he’ll find plenty of thy 
kind o’ comforters. Let me alone, Ben. I hev done right, 
and I know it.” 

“ Thou hes done wrong, and thou knows it. Go thee after 
Aske, and make friends with him ; and send Madame Aske to 
her proper place, and save tliysen and iverybody round thee 
lots o’ sorrow and shame.” 

“Dost ta think I’m such a coward as that?” 

“ Nay, but it would be t’ bravest thing iver thou did. And 
I tell thee, coward or no coward, thou can’t fight Anthony Aske.” 

“ I’ll try to, anyway. So now, Ben, be quiet with thee. 
Thou can be a wise man, and a brave man, if ta wants to, and 
look out for thysen.” 

“Thou knows better than that. Thou knows I’ll stick to 
thee, right or wrong, good or bad, to t’ varry last.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ANTHONY ASKE’S REVENGE. 

“ Revenge is but a frailty incident 
To crazed and sickly minds ; the poor content 
Of little souls, unable to surmount 
An injury; too weak to bear affront.” 

OLDHAM. 

“ Revenge, at first though sweet, 

Bitter erelong, back on itself recoils.” 

Milton. 

It is a finer thing to conciliate an enemy than to conquer 
one ; but Jonathan Burley did not make any such consider- 
ation. He felt himself to have “ bested ” his son-in-law, and 
he kept reiterating that “ he was not afraid of him.” What 
could Aske do to him ? He did not believe there was law 
enough in England to make Eleanor live with her husband if 
she did not want to do so. True, Aske might divorce her; 
but the irate father answered the thought promptly. “Let 
him do it! He’ll hev to give her back her money, and she’ll 
get a better husband, easy enough. And as for what folks say — 
that for it,” and he snapped his fingers defiantly at the supposed 
gossip. 

The day had been a wretched one to the undutiful wife; and 
she had almost determined to tell her father she would go back 
to her husband and her own home. But the first words Jona- 
than said convinced her that her repentant resolution had come 
too late. 

“ Aske was at t’ mills to-day, Eleanor.” 

“ What did he say ?” 

“ What did he say ? I hardly know, I was that mad at him ; 


80 


BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 


but I know what I said. I called him a liar, a double liar; and 
I told him thou niver should go back to him ; and I dared him 
to do his worst to me.” 

“ Oh, father! father! I am so sorry.” 

“ Sorry ? What’s t’ matter now, pray ? I thought that was 
what thou wanted.” 

“ I — I don’t know.” 

“ Well, if iver ! Thou caps all t’ women I have come across. 
Now mind, Eleanor! Thou can’t play fast and loose wi’ thy 
father. Thou brought thy quarrel to me, and I hev lifted it ; 
and I mean to fight it out. And make up thy mind to another 
thing — Anthony Aske lies turned his back on thee foreyer ; and 
thou’lt just hev to lay -upon t’ bed thou hes made for thy sen.” 

“ Father, I hev you, and there is nobody so loving and so 
true as you are.” 

“ Now thou talks sensible. We got along as happy as could 
be before that fellow came between us, and we can do without 
him varry well indeed for t’ future.” 

She stooped and kissed her father for answer, and he held 
her white jewelled hands and stroked them fondly, and. felt 
again very decidedly that he had “ bested ” his enemy. Still, 
as the sweet spring days went by there was a weight upon 
them. Eleanor was loving and lovely, and she gave to Jona- 
than’s life the sweet womanly flavor he always longed for, but 
the joy of her presence was like the joy of forbidden pleasure 
or the sweetness of stolen fruit. 

And Anthony Aske’s vengeance did not tarry. Jonathan had 
thought over his own ground carefully, and he had not been able 
to find any vulnerable place in his life for Aske’s attack, except- 
ing through Eleanor, and he imagined he was well prepared on 
that side. Nor did Anthony at first see in what precise way 
his father-in-law was to be ruined. But if there was a man in 
Yorkshire who was able to open his eyes to whatever advan- 
tages he had, his lawyer, Matthew Rhodes, was that man, and 
the very next morning he drove into Leeds to see him. 

Rhodes was a very large man ; he had an eye like the eagle’s, 


ANTHONY aske’s kevenge. 


81 


piercing and yet cold ; and a neck and head thick and aggres- 
sive as a bull’s. He was a close and eager partisan, and a good 
fighter for any cause he espoused. Indeed, he loved a desper- 
ate fight, and had been frequently known to defend a criminal 
whose case appeared to be hopeless for the simple delight such 
forlorn legal struggles gave him. 

“ Good -morning, squire,” he said; “ what can I do for you 
to-day ?” 

“ I have a quarrel on hand, Rhodes. I want you to fight 
with me.” 

“Hum ! Who is it with, squire? And what is it about?” 

“ It is with Jonathan Burley.” 

Then Rhodes became interested at once. “Your father-in-law, 
squire ?” 

“ Exactly. It is about my wife. Listen !” and Anthony 
went over the whole affair, carefully. 

“ Do you want a divorce ?” 

“ No, no, no ! I will not give up my wife.” 

“There is her dowry, you know, and — ” 

“ I am not thinking of money.” 

“Is it revenge, then ?” 

“Yes; it — is — revenge! I want to ruin Burley.” 

“You are sure you mean it? Quite sure, squire?” 

“ I never was more in earnest about anything.” 

“Are you afraid of spending money for this object?” 

“ No. I’ll spend it freely.” 

“ Hundreds ? — thousands ?” 

“ Tens of thousands, if necessary.” 

“Then I understand you. Leave me for an hour to think 
it over, when you come back, and I will tell you what to 
do.” 

When Aske returned Rhodes had entered fully into his 
client’s quarrel. Indeed, he had wrought himself so complete- 
ly to Anthony’s mood, that Burley had become almost per- 
sonally offensive to him. The squire felt the accord at once, 
and the two men sat down together. 

6 


82 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“You have been badly treated, Aske — shamefully treated, 
disgracefully treated, by both Burley and his daughter.” 

“Leave my wife out of the question. I prefer that she 
should not be named.” 

“ Very well; Burley ought to be punished — severely punished. 
To come between a man and his wife is a crime, squire ; and 
I’m sorry the law finds no adequate punishment for it. There 
is no adequate punishment, so we must take the law somewhat 
in our own hands ; and 1 think we can make Burley smart. 
Yes, I really think we can ! If I remember right, he bought 
the land on which his mill stands from your father?” 

“Yes, he did.” 

“ And the land above it is still yours?” 

“ Both above and below.” 

“ Never mind that which is below. You own the land above 
it, as far up the stream as Black Force ?” 

“ Yes, I do.” 

“ Then build a mill upon it. Build as large a mill as you 
can, and fill it with the newest and finest machinery.” 

“I see what you mean, Rhodes; but I don’t want to meddle 
with trade and spinning. I am a county gentleman, and my 
ancestors — ” 

“I want you to do nothing the ‘ancestors’ will object to. 
You need not appear at all. I know the man who will attend 
to the business for you.” 

“ But that would be a mere question of competition ; and it 
is likely Burley would have the best of it. He is clever in 
business, and he has the reputation of being clever. Every- 
thing is in his favor. I do not believe I could injure him in 
that way ; and I might injure myself.” 

“Squire, you don’t see as far through a stone wall as I 
thought you could,” and he stooped forward and said a few 
words in a lower voice to Anthony. 

Then the squire leaped to his feet with a laugh. “ Thank 
you, Rhodes,” he cried ; “ the plan is capital. No one but 
you would ever have dreamed of such a revenge.” 


ANTHONY ASKE’S REVENGE. 


83 


“ But ray thoughts must depend on your money.” 

“ Draw upon me for all you require ; and, remember, I am 
impatient. Do not lose an hour.” 

“It isn’t my way. You can go home, squire; you will not 
have long to wait for the declaration of war.” 

Rhodes kept his word. Within a week a large force of men 
had begun to dig the foundations for another mill, higher up 
the stream than Burley’s. Jonathan winced at the coming com- 
petition ; but he had not, during the months it was in process 
of erection, any idea of the deeper wrong that was to follow. 

But it was bad enough to see the edifice growing as rapidly 
as unstinted money and labor could produce it; and it soon 
became an almost intolerable eyesore to him. Aske never 
appeared in the new enterprise. A man from Halifax, called 
Sykes, was the nominal proprietor; but Burley knew well 
whose money and power was behind him. And Sykes, too, 
was a blustering, hectoring fellow, whose manner was especially 
offensive to Jonathan — a very Mordecai passing his mill-gates. 

When the new mill-building was completed it was filled with 
machinery and looms of the best description ; and such high 
wages were offered to first-class hands as speedily robbed-Bur- 
ley of most of his fine workers. Almost every day there was 
some irritation of this kind ; and the rivalry between the two 
masters — Burley and Sykes — soon began to infect all their 
hands ; so that the “ letting out ” every night was a turbulent 
scene of ill words, too often ending in blows. And it was not 
many weeks before a spirit of hatred and quarrelling entered 
every cottage, and in some cases separated friends and families. 

At this point Aske’s real motive was manifested. One morn- 
ing a large body of men were observed at work upon the stream. 
They were engaged in building a lock. Burley was naturally 
very indignant. Sykes, in his insolent way, said “ their machin- 
ery would at times need more water than the ordinary ‘run’ 
would afford ; and in such circumstances they would be obliged 
to ‘ lock ’ the water for a supply.” 

“ That will allow you at any time to shut off my supply of 


84 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


water, and so virtually to stop my mill. It is an outrage ! You 
Lave no right to ‘ lock ’ a mill-stream,” said Burley, passion- 
ately, “ and I will appeal to the law to protect me.” 

“ And if the law orders me to remove the ‘lock’ I will do it. 
Not till,” answered Sykes, turning on his heel indifferently. 

But going to law was a remedy as bad as the disease ; and 
Burley began to perceive that it was exactly what Aske had 
been driving him to. For Aske knew well that he had no right 
to “ lock” a mill-stream ; and he knew also that the law would 
not sustain him in such an act ; but all the same, during the 
trial of the case — which might be indefinitely prolonged — Bur- 
ley could be. effectually and permanently crippled in business. 

Months of terrible anxiety followed. Burley, deprived of re- 
liable water-power, found himself unable to fill orders with any 
degree of punctuality. The prosecution of his case took all his 
spare time and money. He was going to financial ruin at a 
frightful pace. Every small loss paved the way for a great one ; 
and he foresaw that when his verdict was gained he would be a 
ruined man. True, he could then sue Aske for damages ; but, 
weary and impoverished, how would he be able to go through 
another prolonged litigation. 

At first the wicked injustice of the whole scheme for his 
ruin almost made him insane. He went about his mill like a 
baited wild beast; there were hours when even Ben Holden 
kept out of his way. All the worst points of Jonathan’s char- 
acter were developed by such an ordeal, for he had a distinct 
under-consciousness that it was of his own bringing on ; that 
lie had wilfully taken a bad road ; and that just so long as he 
chose to pursue it, he need not expect to meet with any good. 

He saw the business of which he was so proud, which he had 
built up by years of industry and prudence, decreasing day by 
day. No amount of skill or intelligence or caution could avert 
its decay. He loved his money. Every shilling of it had been 
honestly made, and was a testimony to his integrity. He felt 
keenly that he was being “ rogued out of it” with a slow, im- 
placable persistence that he could neither resist nor escape. All 


ANTHONY ASKE’S REVENGE. 


85 


his life’s labor was going at a sacrifice, and his foes hid them- 
selves behind the bulwark of the law, and from that vantage- 
ground baited him into an agony of imprudent struggles against 
the iniquity of their injustice. 

In a very short time after the lawsuit began it usurped ev- 
ery faculty and feeling of Jonathan’s nature. He had no time 
for anything but the unnatural fight upon which he had en- 
tered. He resigned his management of the chapel affairs, and 
soon became irregular in all those public religious duties which 
had once been such a delight to him. Ben watched the mill 
with a vigilant eye, but in spite of every effort the number of 
looms at work gradually decreased. Jonathan could not bear 
to see it, and he seldom went through the weaving-sheds. 

Even the sympathy of his “ hands,” manifesting itself in a 
subdued manner, or by a more marked respect, hurt him. Be- 
sides, Sarah’s face was a reproach he could not meet. In a mo- 
ment’s passion he had taken his daughter home and espoused 
her quarrel, and he quickly understood that by the act he had 
put another barrier between Sarah and himself. In all his sub- 
sequent proceedings he had also sacrificed her to the evil pas- 
sions which were eating his own heart and substance away. As 
time went on he avoided her altogether. He had a dim kind 
of perception that Steve was doing very badly, but he did not 
feel as if he had either the right or the inclination to interfere 
again in his affairs. One day Ben Holden began to speak of 
him, and he stopped the subject with a few curt words. 

“ Let Steve Benson alone, I say. When he works, pay him. 
When lie’s idle, ‘ dock ’ him. We are both going to ruin about 
as fast as we can ; only he tak’s one way, and I tak’ another.” 

“If ta knows thou art going to ruin, for God’s sake stop, 
Jonathan.” 

“ Nay, I’m in for t’ fight. I’ll hang on till t’ last moment. 
Does ta think I’d back out of any fight? I’m not that kind.” 

“ I wish ta was.” 

“Well, I am not.” 

But even the men in the thick of the battle are not to be 


86 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


half so much pitied as the women who sit at home, watching, 
watching, watching for some good coming ; and weeping, be^ 
cause there is nothing comes but disappointment and despair. 
Of all the sufferers in this unhappy quarrel, Eleanor was the 
greatest. Certainly her father never said a word of reproach 
to her. But words are not the only form of speech. II is 
gloomy, haggard face, his restlessness and silence ; the gradual 
but constant retrenchments in the once splendidly generous 
household, taught her better than any lecture could have done 
some forcible lessons regarding wilful sin and its consequences. 

The old home, which she had looked back so fondly to, had 
become a very different place. It was so, indeed, from the first 
hour of her return. Nature, even in the household and the af- 
fections, abhors a vacuum ; and as soon as Eleanor married, she 
began to efface her place in Burley House, and order it to new 
ways and new hopes. Jonathan had got used to his solitary 
dinner, and his quiet sit with his pipe. There were very few 
hours in which he really regretted the company, and the dress- 
ing, dining, and merry-making which had been naturally enough 
a part of Eleanor’s reign there. 

Also, he had begun to picture to himself another woman in 
her place as mistress. Into all his fair, large rooms he had 
brought Sarah, in imagination. Iler quiet movements, her 
calm, sweet face, her soft, homely speech, had become a part 
of all his dreams and hopes for the future. Do as he would, 
Eleanor appeared to him somewhat in the light of a guest. 
She had given up her place, and he could not put her in it 
again. Aske’s wife was not altogether the same thing as his 
very own daughter. He would have been puzzled to define the 
difference; he would, very likely, have denied it; but there it was. 

And Eleanor, in the same vague, indeterminate way, was 
sensible of it. Her rooms were precisely as she left them, but 
she had outgrown all their belongings. She wondered she had 
ever cared for the books on the shelves. The pretty furniture 
appeared childish in its taste, and paltry in its quality, after the 
splendor of her apartments in Aske Hall. She could not help 


ANTHONY ASKE’S REVENGE. 87 

a feeling of contempt for the mementos of the very days that 
in her memory had been bathed in a rosy light. 

So that in the earliest hours of her wicked desertion from 
duty, she felt that she had made a grave mistake. But alas ! 
alas i how hard are the backward steps to a forsaken home ! 
And after her father’s open defiance of Aske, the road seemed 
barred to her. She was powerless to struggle against the forces, 
internal and external, that bound her to her transgression. Then 
she made an effort to resume her old place in Burley House, 
and among the society which she had been wont to gather there. 
But she was no longer a bright young girl surrounded by lov- 
ers, with the glory of a high social position before her. She 
was a deserted wife, with a shadow upon her name. 

In the heyday of her youth and beauty and prosperity, she 
had not been very careful of other women’s feelings, and she 
did not find them in her trouble inclined to return good for 
evil. Very few ladies called upon her. The gentlemen she 
met treated her with restraint and evident disapproval, or else 
with a sympathy that was still more painful and offensive. 

It was Jane Bashpoole’s hour of revenge, and she used it pit- 
ilessly against her rival. The story of the sapphire necklace, 
set in Miss Bashpoole’s own designing, passed from lip to lip. 
“ Poor Cousin Anthony ” was the subject of her commisera- 
tion, and without a dissenting feminine vote Eleanor was ad- 
judged unworthy of the love and position which he had given 
her. And though Squire Bashpoole said few' words about the 
matter, every single word, and every shrug of his broad shoul- 
ders, condemned his nephew’s wife. And the county gentle- 
folks wondered “ how Aske could expect anything else from 
people who had only their money to recommend them, and 
who had not been taught through generations of culture the 
self-restraints of good birth and good breeding.” 

A month after the quarrel began, Aske left Yorkshire ; but 
the work of his revenge w'ent steadily on. Still, few things 
grow desperate at once. For months, Burley had intervals in 
which he not only disregarded but defied his enemy. “ He’ll 


88 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


get more than he’s building for, Ben,” he would say, after an 
unusually prosperous week. “ If he thinks he can take my 
business from me, he’s a bit mistaken ! Who’s Sykes of Hali- 
fax ? Nobody knows him. Jonathan Burley, he’s a good name 
from t’ Tweed to t’ Thames.” 

But, from the hour in which Aske’s tactics developed them- 
selves in the “ locked stream,” Jonathan plainly foresaw his 
financial ruin ; and the conflict resolved itself into that desper- 
ate, despairing pertinacity which makes soldiers hold a fort 
they know must finally be surrendered ; or doctors struggle 
with a cancer they are certain will, in the end, destroy life. 

It was the facing of this hopeless fight which made Burley 
hard and parsimonious. He wanted every shilling to continue 
it as long as possible, and he began retrenchment first in his 
home. All his horses were sold but the one roadster he needed 
for his gig ; all the servants dismissed but such as were abso- 
lutely necessary to prevent things from going to waste. Elea- 
nor, who was fond of luxurious appointments, and especially of 
rich clothing, found it no light addition to her sorrows to learn 
the want of money, and to be compelled to fold over her aching 
heart faded and shabby silk. 

One night, nearly three years after she had left Aske, Elea- 
nor was standing at the window just at gloaming. It was the 
month of March, and the ground was white, and the trees rest- 
lessly tossing their bare branches above the neglected avenue. 
All was still in the house, all was still in the park, except the 
cawing of the rooks, sailing homeward in straggling flight. 
Never had Eleanor been so conscious of the punishment of her 
sin as during that dreary day. Her father, full of trouble and 
anxiety, had gone to York, and had forgotten to bid her “ good- 
by.” She had long felt that she was a trouble to the two wom- 
en-servants, and that they heartily wished her in her own home. 
All outside sympathy for her was long ago dead. She was 
utterly forsaken and forlorn. 

She was weeping silently, and almost unconsciously, when 
the house-maid, a woman of forty years old, entered the room 


ANTHONY ASKe’s REVENGE. 


89 


with coals to replenish the fire. Eleanor’s white cheeks and 
hopeless air made the woman sorry for her. She set down the 
empty scuttle, and said, “ Mistress Aske, I am grieved for thee. 
Why doesn’t thou go and mak’ up with thy husband ? Depend 
upon it, he’ll niver be able to say a cross word to thee.” 

“ Oh, thank you, Martha ! You are the only person that has 
had a kind word for me for so long ! I would go to the squire 
if I knew where he was. I think I would go to the end of the 
world if I could only put an end to this trouble.” 

“ Nay, then, thou need only go to thy own place. T’ squire 
came home yesterday ; and varry old and bad he looks, so Jane 
Arkroyd says. I’d tell Jimmy to drive thee oover to Aske, 
and for thy own sake and for Master Burley’s sake, I’d try and 
put a stop to a’ this worriting and waste o’ good brass.” 

“ I have a great mind to take your advice, Martha. I am 
sure it is good advice. But I won’t have Jimmy. If I go, no 
one but you shall know ; then, if I fail, I am sure you will keep 
my fresh sorrow and shame in your own heart.” 

“I don’t believe thou will fail ; and if ta does, I’ll niver say 
a word about it to any one. Thou can’t walk to Aske, though, 
aud in t’ dark, too.” 

“Yes, I can. It is only four miles over the common. Many 
an afternoon I walk double that, without any motive but to tire 
myself to sleep. I’ll go now, Martha; I won’t wait until to- 
morrow. It may be wet then, and a day may make all the dif- 
ference between too late and not too late.” 

She dressed carefully, and covered herself with one of the 
large mantles then worn. In a little more than an hour she 
was at the gates of Aske Park. It was quite dark and the 
gates were shut, and she had no alternative but to ring the bell 
and take old Geoffrey into her confidence. He listened to her 
with reluctance. “T’ squire will never forgive me, mistress,” 
he said, “ and I doan’t think it kind in thee to put an owd man 
like me in such a box.” 

“ But let me warm myself at your fire, Geoffrey. I am damp 
and cold.” 


90 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


He was not able to resist this plea, and when he saw how 
three years of suffering had changed her, his heart was troubled 
for the woman he had first seen in all the pride and joyousness 
of her bridehood. 

u I won’t harm you, Geoffrey. I only want to see my hus- 
band — to see if there is any chance of him forgiving me.” 

“ Now then, mistress, thou talks well. Go thy ways, and God 
bless thee !” 

She walked rapidly through the park, and as she neared the 
house she saw that there were lights in the small dining-parlor. 
The blinds were not drawn, but before the windows there was 
a clump of thick laurel-trees. It was Anthony’s custom, when 
he dined alone, to smoke his cigar on the terrace before the 
drawing-room, and she meant to watch behind the shrubs until 
he came out. Then she could approach him unseen by the 
servants, and she thought that if Anthony was left without 
anything to consider but the forgiveness she meant to plead 
for, he would not turn her away. 

Cautiously she advanced to the laurel -bushes, and peered 
through them into the room. Matthew Rhodes was sitting 
with Aske. They were smoking and talking with great ear- 
nestness. The table was covered with papers, and Eleanor ob- 
served her husband’s face darken as he examined them. She 
guessed rightly enough that they were bills of expenses, and 
probably their amount staggered even Anthony’s conception of 
the value of such a revenge as he was taking ; for he soon rose, 
and began to walk about the room in a mood whose concen- 
trated passion she was quite familiar with. Rhodes terrified 
her. She had never seen the man before, but she had heard 
many a story of his relentless persecution of those whom he 
hated, and his dark, heavy face made her shrink back trembling 
into the covert of the laurels. She did not dare to call Antho- 
ny’s attention while Rhodes was near him. Shivering with 
cold and sick with fear, she waited and waited until the two 
men went out of the room together. 

Perhaps Anthony might come on to the terrace now. She 


ANTHONY ASKE’S REVENGE. 


91 


lingered for another half-hour, until she had no longer any 
strength or courage left. Then, with slow and painful steps, 
she went back to the keeper’s lodge. He let her in without a 
word ; and she stood a few minutes by his fire, and dried and 
warmed her wet, cold feet. Her wretched face, her pallor, and 
silent, heavy weeping, commanded his pity. He asked her no 
questions, but quietly put a cup of milk and a slice of bread- 
and-meat on the table. With a look of gratitude she drank 
the milk, and then, weeping bitterly, went out again into the 
dark, and so across the lonely common dividing Aske from 
Bui ley on the northern side. 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN THE SHADOW. 

“ When thy dearest friends deceive thee, 

And cold looks thy love repel, 

And the bitter humors grieve thee, 

That makes God’s fair earth a hell ; 

Oh, these are moments, trying moments, 

Meant to try thee — use them well.” 

Prof. Blackie. 

Eleanor was disappointed but not discouraged; the road 
was still open — she was determined to try again, and only from 
Anthony’s own lips take a final dismissal from his heart and 
home. But the next day there was a driving rain-storm, and 
the weather was wet and cold and blustery for a whole week. 
Under such conditions the common, being full of hollows, was 
dangerous for a foot - traveller, especially in the dark; and 
Eleanor was obliged to bear as patiently as she could that mis- 
fortune of the evil elements which often comes as the last 
straw in trouble. And before the common was passable, 
Anthony went to his uncle’s, and Martha heard in the village 
that Squire Bashpoole and his wife and daughter were going to 
Italy in his company. 

“ It is too late,” she said, bitterly — “ too late, Martha. Oh, 
what shall I do ?” 

“ I’d ride over to Squire Bashpoole’s, and ask plain out-and- 
out to sec my husband if I were you, Mistress Aske.” 

“ I can’t do that, Martha. If he refused before Jane Bash- 
poolc, I think it would kill me.” 

“ You be full o’ pride yet, ma’am. Can’t you write a letter, 
then ?” 


IN THE SHADOW. 


93 


“Yes, I can do that. But if it goes to Bashpoole Manor 
House, they will never give him it.” 

“Nay-a! nay-a! Gentlefolks wouldn’t do a thing like that! 
Then send it to Aske Hall ; I’ll warrant he’ll go back there 
before he leaves England, if it only be for an hour or two.” 

This plan appeared to Eleanor the best. She wrote a few 
penitent lines, and asked her husband to come and see her and 
to bring her forgiveness with him. She addressed her letter 
to Aske Hall, and Mrs. Parsons, the house-keeper, took it from 
the post. She knew the handwriting, and she guessed the con- 
tents referred to a reconciliation, “ which isn’t agreeable, nor 
what is expected or wished for,” she commented. “ Master is 
gone — or as good as gone — for all the year; and iverything 
arranged comfortable for servants at the hall, and missis can be 
done varry well without. It’s not a Botany Bay affair to put 
t’ letter in his room, where he can see it if he looks round for 
it ; and it isn’t imprisonment for life to forget to tell him about 
it.” So, without a word, she took the unfortunate petition to 
a parlor Anthony seldom used, and put it behind a large china 
vase on the chimney-piece. 

As Eleanor expected, Anthony made a final visit to the hall, 
but he never saw her note, and Mrs. Parsons never remembered 
to point it out to him. And to the anxious wife, the weary 
hours of watching and waiting went over as if there was lead 
in every minute of them. But in four days the suspense was 
over. She saw the departure of her husband and his uncle’s 
family in the weekly paper, and she realized, as she had never 
done before, how truly forsaken she was. Love, anger, and 
jealousy drove her to the very verge of fever; but fortunately 
her misery ran into motion; she found relief in long, physic- 
ally exhausting walks, and oblivion in the deep dreamless sleeps 
that followed them. 

In this way the first cruel suffering of her wounded heart 
was dulled and soothed; and as the summer advanced she was 
more and more alone with Nature. One day she was coming 
through a beautiful strip of woods, and she heard some person 


94 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


singing. It was a man’s voice, but so clear and joyful, and so 
full of rich melody, that she could not but listen, and follow its 
merry strains. On the brink of a little dripping spring, half 
hid in a superb growth of purple foxglove, she found the sing- 
er. lie was lying among the flowers, with his hands clasped 
above his head; but as Eleanor approached he raised himself 
upon his elbow, and said, “A good-afternoon to thee, Mistress 
Aske.” 

She looked at him, and all fear left her. The face was white 
and thin, but as candid as a child’s ; and though his clothes 
were ragged, and he was nearly barefoot, he did not seem to 
have any sense of his poverty, or any intention of asking alms. 

“ I see you know me,” said Eleanor ; “ but I do not re- 
member you.” 

“ Nay, I dare say not. I hev worked for thy father, though, 
iver since I were a lad big enough to wind a bobbin — thet is, 
when I could frame mysen to work at all. But I often wish I 
were a flower like one o’ these big bells ; they neither toil nor 
spin, but there’s varry few men and women that are as gay and 
happy as they are.” 

“You sing as if you were happy.” 

“ Nay, I’m not happy. I could be, if I didn’t hev to work 
and think. But I’ve got a wife and some little childer, and I 
can’t pick up a meal for ’em, as them blackbirds do, in ivery 
one’s field and garden.” 

“ Dear me ! I thought from your voice that I had found 
one happy heart. Everybody I meet is in trouble of some 
kind.” 

“ Ay, I know. Thou lies thy own sorrow, too. I know all 
about it, and I think little of a man that can’t forgive a wife 
like thee. Why-a! My wife hes forgiven me hundreds o’ 
times ; and she’s a bit of a Tartar, too.” 

“ What is your name? Have I ever known your wife?” 

“ My name is Steve Benson. Happen ta hes heard tell o’ 
my sister Sarah ?” 

“No, I think not.” 


IN TIIE SHADOW. 


95 

“Nor of Joyce Benson?” 

“ No.” 

“ No, that’s likely enough. Master Burley isn’t one to talk 
about his ‘hands,’ or his business. He hes hed a sight o’ 
trouble lately.” 

“Yes. Can I do anything for you?” 

“ Ay, if ta could spare a shilling. I’m going home when t’ 
sun sets, and- it would make it easier to do. Here’s a bonny 
lot of ferns. I’ll give them to thee and welcome.” 

“ Thank you, Steve Benson, and here is half a crown. I 
think you are what wise men call a philosopher. 1 have got 
half a crown’s worth from you.” She put the coin into his 
out-stretched brown palm, and took the nodding ferns and a 
great handful of bluebells he gave her, and went on her way, 
wonderfully cheered. 

After this she met Steve on the common, or in the wood, 
several times ; and she made a point of carrying a piece of 
money in her pocket for him. He always took it with a frank 
pleasure, and he generally had some bit of a curiosity to give 
in return — a petrified shell, or a queer bird’s-nest, or the root of 
a rare plant. In the clear air of the wolds Eleanor could hear 
him singing a mile away, and an odd sort of friendship gradu- 
ally grew up between them. She had never before felt any 
interest in mill-hands, never wanted to help any of them to 
realize their idea of happiness ; but Steve interested her, and 
she regretted that her means were too small to effectually aid 
him. Perhaps it was because he so frankly confessed his faults. 

“You see, Mistress Aske,” he said, “there hes been a great 
mistake somewhere in my life. I’m on a wrong road, and I feel 
it ivery hour of ivery day. Well, then, what is t’ good o’ me 
working and tewing, for I’ll niver be able to make wrong come 
right? I just try to get all t’ happiness I can. When t’ weather 
is bad I go to t’ mill, and I earn a bit o’ brass. When t’ sun is 
shining, and t’ birds are singing, and t’ flowers blowing, and 
iverything is happy and bonny, I go and tak’ my share o’ t’ 
pleasure with ’em.” 


96 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“You are what people call ‘lazy,’ Steve.” 

“ Ay, I am. An hour ago I saw half a dozen men mending 
t’ road down yonder. There were half a dozen crows in a 
tree watching them, and you niver heard such a mockery as t’ 
birds made o’ t’ work. But they cawed a civil ‘good-morning’ 
to me. They knew I hed sense enough to enjoy t’ sunshine and 
all t’ other good things thet could be hed without spending a 
penny for them.” 

“ I am afraid you are a foolish fellow, Steve.” 

“Ay, I dare say. Most folks will tell you so.” 

“And if you have a wife and children I think you are really 
doing wrong.” 

“ I about know I am doing wrong. But I can’t bide t’ 
heat of t’ mill — it gives me a headache — and t’ smell of t’ wool 
and t’ oil is fair sickening. Sunshine and t’ woods are varry 
much healthier; and then, I may tell thee, t’ wife lies her tan- 
trums pretty often. Nature is a deal easier to live wi’ than 
Joyce, poor lass! Human beings are trying, mostly, Mistress 
Aske.” 

It was after this conversation Eleanor first spoke to her 
father about Steve. Jonathan listened with some interest to 
her description of this lazy lover of Nature. 

“ He’s right enough, Eleanor,” he answered ; “ there has been 
a mistake somewhere in his life : lie’s a good lad in a way, and 
yet he can do good to nobody, not even to himsen. But for 
that matter, there has been a mistake in thy life. And happen 
thou aren’t doing a bit better with it than he is. Wandering 
about t’ woods and wolds won’t put wrong right. I niver heard 
tell or found out yet of any salvation coming that way. A 
spoiled life will hev to look a bit higher than Nature.” 

“Steve says you are the best of good masters to him. lie 
says, ‘ Master Burley pays me all I earn, and he niver casts up 
my faults to me.’ ” 

“ Happen I hev a good reason for being patient with t’ poor 
lad. ' I hev a Master, too, Eleanor ; and I hev tried his patience 
above a bit these last three years or more.” 


IN THE SHADOW. 


97 


“ I know, father. I have brought sorrow and care and loss 
without end on you.” 

“Ay, thou lies! That is t’ truth, and there’s no use cover- 
ing it up with a lie or a compliment. But I think a deal worse 
of mysen than I do of thee. I lied spoiled thee to begin wi\ I 
was nearly forty years older than thou wert. I knew t’ world 
and thou didn’t. I’ll go deep down to t’ bottom o’ my heart, 
and say, I was a bit jealous o’ Aske mysen, and t’ quarrel was 
smouldering in my own soul, or I wouldn’t hev been so ready 
to lift thy quarrel.” 

“ Late as it is, can we not put an end to the trouble ? I will 
go back to Anthony, and ask him to forgive me, and try and 
do my duty pleasantly for the future.” 

“ Nay, thou won’t. If ta turns traitor to me now, thou wilt 
be a mean-hearted lass. Aske may ruin me, as far as brass is 
concerned ; but if I hev his wife, I can still snap my fingers 
o’er him. Nay, nay, thou must stand by me now ! It would 
Ibe t’ crudest blow of all if thou should leave me after I had 
sspent t’ last shilling I hev in thy quarrel.” 

“ Is it as bad as that, father ?” 

“ It’s coming to it. But I’ll fight him as long as iver I can. 
If he is Yorkshire, so am I. I won’t give in as long as I can 
hit back. And when he’s got all my money, and ruined my 
business, and turned me out of my home, I can still crow over 
him, if he hesn’t got thee.” 

“ I do not believe Anthony wants me.” 

“ Doesn’t he? Ay, but he does ! Thou art what he is fight- 
ing for. He thinks when he lies driven thee out o’ thy fine 
home, and me to day’s work, thou wilt be glad to turn thy back 
on me.” 

“ Never ! I’d never, never do that.” 

The tears trembled in Jonathan’s eyes, and his lips quivered 
as he spoke. Eleanor bent forward and took his hands in hers, 
and kissed them, and said solemnly, once more, “ I would never, 
never do that, father.” 

But the conversation made her very miserable. It was quite 


98 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


evident from it that Jonathan neither expected nor desired a 
compromise, and that any reconciliation she made with her hus- 
band would be repudiated by him ; for, in spite of what lie had 
said to his daughter about his utter ruin, he still believed in his 
case, and felt certain of success if he could only “keep going” 
for a few months longer. But, oh ! the misery of the law’s de- 
lay ! The fears and hopes and doubts that broke that long sum- 
mer to pieces left traces on both Jonathan and Eleanor that no 
future years ever quite effaced. 

Towards the end of December, when the crisis in Jonathan’s 
affairs was approaching, he became strangely calm. It was as if 
he had exhausted every energy in some tremendous effort and 
a patient watching for events was all that remained for him. 
Or else it was the result of a submission of heart that had come 
with the sense that he had done all that it was possible for him 
to do. At any rate, the mood was so obvious, even to himself, 
that he could not help speaking to Ben Holden about it. 

And Ben, always sympathetic, heartily rejoiced in it. “ Thou 
art full of human nature, Jonathan,” he replied; “and human 
nature is about t’ same thing as it iver was. T’ disciples were 
just like thee. They toiled and they tewed all night long in t’ 
storm, and when they were beat out, then they woke up t’ 
Christ, and were willing he should do for ’em what they couldn’t 
do for theirsens.” 

“ Well, I think a deal better of t’ disciples for it. We’ve got 
a right to try and help oursens, Ben. When you set a new hand 
to a job of work, you’d think little of him if he didn’t do all 
and iver he could do before he came to thee and said, ‘ Master, 
I’m fair beat wi’ t’ job. I hev got t’ threads all tangled up, and 
I want thee to put ’em right for me.’ Now, I’m none ashamed 
to go to God and tell him, ‘ I hev done all I can. I can do no 
more. Thou undertake my enemy for me.’ ” 

“And will ta do whatever he tells thee to do?” 

“Ay, will I.” 

“ Well, I believe thee, Jonathan.” 

God giveth his beloved in their sleep. Surely some swift 


IN TIIE SHADOW. 


99 


and subtle intelligence visited Jonathan one night in the Christ- 
mas week. His affairs had not apparently changed in any way 
for the better, yet he rose in a restful, passive mood, feeling 
only the patient care of a submissive heart. Softly as a chid- 
den yet forgiven child he dressed himself, facing, as he did so, 
the consequences of his rash, self-willed temper. 

For the very first time it struck him consciously that others 
would suffer in his ruin quite as much as himself. How hard 
it would be for the daintily reared Eleanor to bear the limita- 
tions of actual, bare, cramping poverty. And Sarah ! And all 
the “hands,” to whom he had ever been a just and kind mas- 
ter ! He remembered this morning that the closing of Burley’s 
Mill would mean, to most of them, the breaking up of their 
homes, and perhaps the scattering of their effects, the separation 
of families, and the beginning of new lives in unknown places 
and among strange people. These thoughts made him speak 
with a singular tenderness to his daughter, and he saw the tears 
come into her eyes with happy surprise at it. 

The day was a cold winter day, and the whole country white 
and spectral with unbroken snow. The farm-houses and the 
scattered mills rose up from it dark and well-defined, like isl- 
ands in a spellbound sea. In some way it seemed exactly to fit 
his mood, and he walked to the mill that morning wondering 
at the subdued, resigned influence that swayed him. 

Ben Holden met him at the gates, and said something to him 
about the machinery in the lower weaving-room. He went with 
him and examined it, and then slowly ascended to the upper 
shed. He had not been in it for weeks. One-half of the looms 
were idle, but Sarah Benson was in her old place. 

He had avoided her — consciously avoided her lately, not that 
he loved her less, but because, in the gathering difficulties of his 
life, any happy termination to his love seemed so impossible. 
But he looked at her steadily and inquiringly this morning. 
Her lips quivered, and she returned the glance with one of in- 
finite sorrow and sympathy. Steve was not in his place. Their 
eyes met again over his empty loom, and Sarah dropped hers 


100 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


with a sigh. Jonathan could no longer be silent. He stood 
near her and asked, “ How is ta, dear lass?” 

“ I’m well, master.” 

But Jonathan felt a keen pang at the words. For her face 
was white and wasted. There were dark, heavy rings round 
her eyes, and the eyes themselves were wells of sorrow. For 
when the weird is very long, and the cup very bitter, it always 
leaves a permanent shadow in the eyes. It was hard work to 
pass her without another word, but Jonathan did it. 

About the middle of the day Ben Holden came to him, and 
said, “I hev just heard that Aske is home again.” 

“ Varry well. Let him come. He can only hurt me as far 
as he’s let hurt me.” 

“ And after a’, Jonathan, what’s t’ good o’ worriting thysen 
to death about such trash as looms and money ?” 

“There is a good deal o’ use in it, Ben. Job didn’t call 
God’s gifts ‘ trash.’ He didn’t tell himsen that it was a good 
thing when his riches were taken away from him. The Eternal 
hed given, and it was a gift ; he hed taken away, and it was a 
loss. And I want thee to notice in particular, that it wasn’t his 
poverty, nor his ulcers, that made Job angry. It was t’ exas- 
perating advices and condolences o’ his friends. Now it isn’t 
my losses — I’m none feared to work — it’s my friends and my 
neighbors, and the things they’ll hev to say, that bothers me.” 

“ Well, if ta holds thy peace, they’ll soon get tired of talk- 
ing. Wi’ silence you can plague t’ devil/ I hev done it.” 

“ I’d a deal rather talk up to him. Sarah Benson is looking 
varry badly ; does ta know how Steve is getting on ?” 

“ He’s not getting on at all. Sarah hes Steve’s family to find 
for, in t’ main. As for Steve, he works an hour or two now 
and then ; but lie’s far more like a gypsy than a Christian. 
He’s niver happy but when lie’s away to t’ sea-side or to t’ 
moors. Joyce is niver well. There are two children now, and 
poor Sarah hes to keep things together, or they’d be in t’ woi\k- 
house. She’s fair worn out, poor lass !” 

“God help her! I see that.” 


IN THE SHADOW. 


101 


“ Thou looks more like thysen, Jonathan, than I have seen 
thee for a long while. Hes ta any good news?” 

“ Ay, I think I hev. I got a letter from my old uncle Shut- 
tleworth half an hour ago. He says he hes just heard from a 
friend o’ mine of t’ fight I am having with Aske. And he says 
he isn’t a bit too old to hev a hand in it, and he’s going to hev 
fair play for me, if money can get it. So I’m going oover to 
Keighley to see him this afternoon. Shuttleworth hes a mint o’ 
brass, and I’ll give Aske another tussle, with his help.” 

“ Is it any use, Jonathan ?” 

“ Ay, is it. I won’t give up now. Truth and oil are bound 
to come to t’ top.” 

“ Is it worth it?” 

“ It is worth it to me. I’m not Ben Holden. Thou cares so 
little for this world that there would be no risk in t’ devil taking 
thee up into a high mountain, and showing thee all t’ kingdoms 
of t’ world. And I’m in t’ right. That’s where it is. I know 
I am, and I’m going to fight for my right to t’ last shilling I can 
lawfully get. Shuttleworth hes offered to help me. It’s a fair 
wonder. He never gave me a penny in his life ; no, nor any- 
body else one. He’s seventy-five years old, and he’s keen to 
fight Aske oover again, if needs be. I’m going to see him this 
afternoon, and I’ll stay at Keighley until iverything is settled.” 

“ Does ta know when ta will be back ? I want to go to Otley 
this Christmas Feast to see my sister.” 

“ I won’t be back before Christmas-eve.” 

“ Am I to give t’ hands their extra pay this Christmas ? Can 
ta afford it ?” 

“ Ay, I feel as if I could afford them all they have iver had, 
and a shilling more. Don’t make it a penny less, and tell them 
I wish ’em all ‘A Merry Christmas and a Good New Year.’ ” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE HAND THAT TURNS BACK. 


“ He putteth down one, and setteth up another.” — Ps. lxxv. 7. 

“ Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” — Bom. xii.19. 

“ It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of 
feasting.” — Eccles. vii. 2. 

“ Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.” — Rom. xli. 21. 

Keighley was then a pretty Yorkshire town surrounded l>y 
sylvan scenery, and with few premonitions of the factory and 
furnace smoke that was in the future to make it rich. It was 
nearly dark when Burley reached it; but Jonas Shuttleworth 
was a famous man in Keighley, and his residence was easily 
found. It was one of a long row of small white cottages, and 
when Jonathan knocked with his hand upon the door, a strong, 
querulous voice called out, “ If ta is Jonathan Burley, come in.” 

The two men had never seen each other before, and the elder 
one looked at his visitor with sharp but not unkindly eyes. 
“So thou art my nephew Jonathan. Why, thou looks varry 
near as old as I am ! Come thy ways in to t’ fire, and sit thee 
down ; thou’s welcome. I thought thou’d be here, and I hev 
waited tea a bit for thee.” 

He was a thin, rosy-cheeked old man, with eyes as quick and 
bright as a ferret’s, and plenty of money wrinkles round them ; 
very tall, but remarkably erect ; and even when quiet, giving an 
idea of extreme pugnaciousness. He wore a rather shabby cor- 
duroy suit and a scarlet nightcap, and on Jonathan’s entrance 
rose, pipe in hand, to welcome him. 

The tea was quickly placed upon a small round table between 
them, and without any preliminaries the subject of Burley’s 


THE HAND THAT TURNS BACK. 


103 


troubles introduced. “ I hev heard a good deal,” said Shuttle- 
worth, “ but I want to hear it all from thy own lips. Tell me 
t’ whole truth just as if I was thy lawyer, and don’t thee be 
afraid to let out any bit o’ meanness thou hes been forced to do 
— I’m none too clean-handed mysen.” 

The subject was one on which Jonathan always waxed elo- 
quent. He described his mill, his house, and his beautiful daugh- 
ter enthusiastically. He told of her courtship by Squire Aske, 
of his pride in the connection, and of the handsome settlement 
he had made on the bride. He did not entirely justify Eleanor 
in the matrimonial disputes which had followed her marriage, 
but he excused her largely because of her youth and high spirit, 
and because also of her nascent jealousy of Jane Bashpoole.. 
Then, with kindling anger, he described her return home, the 
stand he had taken in the quarrel, and Aske’s quiet, persistent, 
iniquitous revenge. 

Before he had done, the elder man was on fire. He had put 
his pipe down, and with his arms laid across the table, was lis- 
tening with ill-suppressed passion to Jonathan. “My word!” 
he cried, when the story was finished — “ my word ! but we’ll 
give ’em enough of it ! I like t’ little lass for heving such a 
spirit. I’d like to thresh Aske for putting a finger on her. If 
I was nobbut a young man I’d do it. But I hevn’t done with 
them. I can meet him with t’ English law, and thou ask Mat- 
thew Rhodes what he thinks of fighting Jonas Shuttlewortli that 
way. But I’ll tell thee, Jonathan, what I am going to do in t’ 
morning. We have another hour to-night, and I’ll spend that 
in getting to know thee.” 

With these words he dropped the subject of the lawsuit en- 
tirely, and manifested an almost childish curiosity about Elea- 
nor’s appearance, her dresses, her entertainments at Aske Hall, 
her presentation at court, and her acquaintance with great peo- 
ple. If Jonathan had not first seen the other side of his un- 
cle’s character, he would almost have despised him for his wom- 
anish curiosity about such small things. 

In the morning, however, Jonas Shuttlewortli was a very dif- 


104 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


ferent man. Before Burley had finished his breakfast he was 
at his hotel. “ Ay,” he said, in answer to Burley’s invitation — 
“ay, I’ll have a cup o’ coffee; eating and drinking helps talk- 
ing. I think I hev got t’ hang o’ thy affairs now, and I’ll tell 
thee what we’ll do. First, about thy mill — how many looms 
hes ta idle !” 

“Eight hundred.” 

“ Set ’em going at once.” 

“ It will take a deal o’ money to do that.” 

“ I’ll be bound for it. I’ll hev to do summat wi’ my brass. 
I was thinking o’ sending it to t’ Fejees and t’ Africans ; but 
happen it will be just as good a thing to keep five hundred 
Yorkshire lasses at work in their own village. It’s a bad thing 
when mill-hands hev to run here and there for work. Home’s 
a full cup, Jonathan.” 

“ You’re right, Shuttleworth ; and God knows I’ll be glad and 
grateful to see ivery shuttle flying again and to watch t’ old 
crowd in and out of t’ gates, morning and night. I will that !’’ 

“ As to Bashpoole lot, I hev an old spite at them. Squire 
Bashpoole and me hes been tooth and nail at it three times, and 
I hev licked him ivery time — wi r damages ! I’m going to please 
my sen about him and his family. Dost ta know them big gates 
at t’ entrance of his park, Jonathan ?” 

“ Ay, I hev seen ’em.” 

“ And thou remembers that little mill village round Long- 
bottom’s factory that straggles right up to ’em?” 

“ I think I do.” 

“I own t’ most o’ them cottages; and I own that strip o’ 
sandy, frowsy land running above them, in a line wi’ the high 
wall Bashpoole built to shut his own park in. He said t’ fac- 
tory lads and lasses got oover t’ pailings and walked among his 
beeches, and he didn’t like it. So he built ’em out. Well, on 
that strip o’ sandy land I am going to put up a soap factory. 
There’s plenty o’ wool mills round, and soap is a sure thing; 
and though he can build lads and lasses out, he can’t build a 
smell out.” 


THE HAND THAT TURNS BACK. 


105 


Jonathan burst into a hearty laugh. “ You’ll be indicted for 
a nuisance,” he said. 

“Ay, I will. I’ll like that. I’m out of a lawsuit of any 
kind now. I hev had twenty-four, my lad, and won them all ! 
T’ tenants in them cottages are mostly my tenants. I can make 
t’ rents that comfortable they wouldn’t smell a brimstone fac- 
tory — and, ta knows, they are well used to bad smells with t’ 
boiling wool in t’ mills. Bashpoole will swear it’s a nuisance; 
varry good, there’s fifty o’ my tenants — closer to t’ nuisance than 
he is — will swear it isn’t. Bashpoole is a varry parnickaty, 
fussy old gentleman. That soap factory will bring him to his 
senses, if anything will. I’ll teach him to meddle wi’ my bonny 
grandniece, and to hev his high-flying, fox-hunting daughter trav- 
elling round t’ world wi’ my niece’s husband. He’ll hev to come 
and see me in t’ end about that soap-boiling, and then I’ll tell 
him plainly, ‘Tit for tat, squire. Your nephew built a lock to 
annoy my nephew.’ If there’s anything I call a satisfactory pay- 
ment, Burley, it is paying a man in his own coin. Now, then, 
when does ta expect the verdict about thy case?” 

“ Soon after the New Year.” 

“ I’m impatient for it. If it isn’t a fair one, we won’t hev it at 
any price. We’ll fight t’ whole case oover. We’ll take it to t’ 
Lords and Commons before we’ll be beat. My word, Jonathan ! 
I’d like thee to see Matthew Rhodes’s face to-morrow when I 
tell him I’m going to tackle Aske.” 

“ Will ta see Rhodes to-morrow ?” 

“ Ay ; I hev a varry gratifying bit o’ business with him. 
He hes some money to pay me in a case I won last week — 
only a right o’ way, that one o’ his clients robbed me of. I 
didn’t want it, but I wouldn’t hev it taken without leave or 
license ; and it’s turned out to be worth two hundred pounds 
and expenses. I’m going to see Rhodes to-morrow, and get t’ 
little bit o’ brass.” 

“ I’ll go with thee if ta likes.” 

“ I’d like nothing better.” 

Certainly Jonas Shuttleworth looked as if the business 


106 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


pleased him. He was as cheery and cliirrupy as if he were go- 
ing to a bridal, and an apparently irrepressible smile lingered 
about his puckered mouth all the way to Leeds. Rhodes met 
him with a grim, watchful courtesy, and was evidently sur- 
prised to see Jonathan Burley with him. 

The money was silently paid over, and Shuttleworth, having 
carefully tied it up in a buckskin bag, said, “ There is some 
pleasure in fighting thee, Rhodes. Thou art no fool. I’m 
right glad thou art Anthony Aske’s lawyer, for now thee and 
me are going to hev it hot and heavy !” 

“ Sir?” 

44 I say, as thou art Aske’s lawyer, thee and me are in for t’ 
biggest fight thou iver had.” 

“ I do not understand you, Mr. Shuttleworth.” 

44 Well, I’ll mek mysen clear enough before I’ve done. Aske 
and thee are two of as big rascals as Yorkshire owns; but I’m 
not going to see you rogue my nephew any longer.” 

“ I am somewhat accustomed to your adjectives, Mr. Shuttle- 
worth ; still, I would advise you that to call a man 4 a rascal ’ is 
actionable.” 

“ Keep thy advice until I think it worth paying for ; or make 
an action of t’ word 4 rascal ’ if ta wants to. Dost ta think 
that any jury in t’ West Riding is going to fine me for telling 
thee a bit o’ truth ? Thou art too well known round here to 
get a farthing o’ damages, Rhodes. And thou wilt hev enough 
to do just now to defend thy client against me and my nephew.” 

“ Mr. Shuttleworth, I have paid you all the law allowed, and 
my business is done with you. Good-morning.” 

44 Stop a bit. My business isn’t done with thee, and that is 
what I’m staying for. Dost ta think anybody stops a minute 
longer in thy spider’s parlor than they can help ? I hev come 
to tell thee that Jonathan Burley is my nephew, my sister’s lad, 
and that I am going to fight his quarrel for him.” 

Rhodes looked quickly up. He was astonished and dis- 
mayed ; but he controlled himself wonderfully, and answered, 
with apparent indifference, “ I congratulate Mr. Burley on his 


THE HAND THAT TURNS BACK. 


107 


champion. It is a pity, Shuttleworth, that you did not come 
forward before your nephew was ruined.” 

“ Speak about what thou knows. My nephew ruined ! Not 
he ! He’ll hev time now to run ivery loom in his mill, for I’m 
going to look after t’ lawyers for him. And I want thee to 
understand I wasn’t fool enough to come up wi’ my help in t’ 
beginning of t’ battle. I was waiting till Aske’s bank account 
was overdrawn. Now, tell him he hes got the whole quarrel 
to fight oover again, if t’ verdict don’t suit us. I’m quite 
ready for it. I’ve hed my say now, and so I’ll bid thee good- 
morning.” 

“Ready for it!” If Jonas Shuttleworth had said “longing 
for it,” he would only have spoken the truth. He was one of 
those men to whom the legal arena is a positive delight ; and 
Burley’s case appealed to his feelings on several sides. The 
two men spent a really happy time together, and when Jona- 
than left his uncle on Christmas-eve it was with a heart full of 
hope and gratitude. He felt ten years younger, for as iron 
sharpeneth iron, so he had been brightened and strengthened 
by his uncle’s help and sympathy. 

The snow still lay upon the moors, but he knew them well, 
and the road to his own home would be much shortened by 
going across them. True, he would be compelled to pass Aske 
Hall, but the thought now rather stimulated him. He had 
been told that Aske had come home, but he did not feel then 
as if he would go a yard out of his way to avoid meeting his 
enemy. 

In the mean time Eleanor was in a mood of peculiar sadness. 
Her father had not told her of Shuttleworth’s letter, and she 
thought it very likely that this would be her last Christmas in 
Burley House. And never, in all her memories of the festival, 
had Christmas-eve seemed so little like it. The servants were 
middle-aged, and disinclined to pleasure that put the house out 
of order or made extra work. No one, this year, had thought 
it worth while to gather holly and haw, or to hang up the 
pleasant mistletoe branch. A little extra cooking seemed to be 


108 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


the one idea of Christmas left in their sad house ; and to Elea- 
nor’s mind there was nothing festive in that rite. 

In the afternoon she went out, to walk off the melancholy 
that oppressed her. The ground was white and hard, and there 
were plenty of greens and berries in the park ; but, after a mo- 
ment’s thought, she found that she had no heart to gather 
them. Besides, the park was not a place she liked to walk in ; 
for, among its shady groves Anthony had wooed and won her. 
She was constantly met there by sudden drifts of tender 
thoughts, which only gave her unavailing regret and sorrow. 

Her usual walk was a little lane that skirted the back of the 
house, and led directly over the common to Aske Hall. It was 
the road she had taken that unfortunate night, when she made 
her unsuccessful effort to see her husband. The misery of 
that long, dark walk, the sight of the handsome, angry face of 
the man she still loved, the apparent hopelessness of all recon- 
ciliation, made it always a sorrowful way to her. For since her 
last conversation with her father, she understood plainly that 
he would regard any advance towards her husband as a deep 
and cruel wrong to himself. She was in a sore strait, and she 
felt utterly unable to do anything in it but endure and wait. 

In the cold, gray afternoon she walked rapidly, folding her 
long black cloak tight around her, to protect herself from the 
keen air. She was not thinking of any grief in particular ; it 
was only Anthony ! Anthony ! that ran like the echo of some 
mournful cry through her heart. At that moment Anthony 
was passing Burley House. Perhaps some hope of seeing his 
wife had led him to take that road. Perhaps he had chosen it 
simply because it was a mile or two shorter. 

In time, we forgive even those whom we have injured. His 
proud heart felt a pang as he passed the little garden wicket, 
where Eleanor, in the first bloom of her fresh loveliness and 
love had so often stood watching his arrival and departure. 
The lonely look of the big dwelling also touched him. He 
slackened his rein, and rode onward, full of regretful thoughts. 
At a sudden turning a few yards before him he saw a woman 


THE HAND THAT TURNS BACK. 


109 


approaching. Her head was dropped, she was dressed in 
black, in the chill winter twilight she had an inexpressible air 
of pathetic and yet proud sadness. 

Oh, how well he knew her! It was his Eleanor! his wife! 
The woman still tenderly beloved. A perfect tempest was in 
his heart. If he had been strong enough, he would have lifted 
her to his saddle, and carried her back to his home. He could 
not determine whether to stop and speak to her, or to pass her 
by unless she spoke to him ; and while he was trying to decide, 
he found himself close to her. 

Then Eleanor looked up and recognized the proud, hand- 
some face, gazing so intently into hers. Alas ! in the shock 
and surprise, she did not see the tender longing, the unspoken 
invitation that made it almost luminous. She stood still a mo- 
ment, trembling violently, but speech entirely forsook her ; and 
possessed she knew not by what fear, she hurried on. Then 
she heard his horse’s hoofs in a mad gallop, and every beat of 
them seemed to be upon her heart. Love, longing, shame, sor- 
row, tossed her on a sea of passionate regret. 

“ Oh, if she could retrace the evil road ! Oh, if Anthony 
could ever again be the lover-husband of the old happy days ! 
Why had she not spoken to him ? Why had she not held his 
bridal-reins and made him listen to her? Oh, how foolish, how 
cowardly, she had been. And Anthony would think her still 
proud and unforgiving and unrepentant. Oh, what a misera- 
ble wife she was and thus murmuring broken laments, and 
prayers of contrition, and implorations for pardon and com- 
fort, she went rapidly, and almost unconsciously, along the 
frozen road. 

At the same hour, Jonathan was driving homeward in an 
unusually happy mood, and as he crossed the lonely moor he 
was singing his favorite hymn for company : 

“ Though trouble springs not from the dust, 

Nor sorrow from the ground, 

Yet ills on ills, by Heaven’s decree, 

In man’s estate are found. 


110 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“As sparks in close succession rise, 

So man, the child of woe,' 

Is doom’d to endless cares and toils 
Through all his life below. 

“ But with my God I leave my cause, 

From him I seek relief ; 

To him, in confidence of prayer, 

Unbosom all my grief. 

“ Unnumbered are his wondrous works, 

Unsearchable his ways ; 

’Tis his the mourning soul to cheer, 

The bowed-down to raise.” 

He went over and over the verses, trying to make them fit — 
first to one tune he liked, and then another. Not far from 
Aske Hall he saw two men leap over the wall and disappear. 
He called to them to come and clean the balled snow out of 
his horse’s feet, but they paid no attention to his request. The 
circumstance, though a trivial one, impressed him unpleasantly. 
The spirit of song was gone — he was suddenly watchful and 
expectant. He turned in his gig and looked all around. The 
snow was so white that darker objects easily attracted attention, 
and Burley noticed a horse, restless and rearing. 

“ That horse must be tied,” he argued. “ If it was restless 
and loose, it wouldn’t remain in t’ same place.” 

He drove near to it, alighted, and examined the creature. It 
was a fine mare, expensively caparisoned, and some one had 
fastened her securely to the stone wall. He had instantly an 
impression that the animal was Aske’s, and he connected its 
peculiar situation with the flight of the two men who had re- 
fused to answer his call. 

“ There’s something wrong here !” he mattered. “ I wonder 
if Aske hes gotten hurt, or if he’s been robbed !” He stood 
still and thought a few moments. “ If he hes, it’s none of my 
affair. He deserves all and more than he’ll get in this world, 
I’m sure. I might call at t’ Hall and tell them about it, though ; 


TIIE HAND THAT TURNS BACK. 


Ill 


and happen, it might he some stranger going to Aske for t’ 
Christmas holidays. I mebbe ought to look round a bit.” 

He was walking slowly along the stone fence as these 
thoughts passed through his mind, and he had not gone fifty 
yards, when he saw the white, upturned face of an apparently 
dead man. 

“ Why — a — it's Aske /” 

He shook all over. For a moment a fierce joy thrilled him 
from head to foot ; the next one he was stooping over his pros- 
trate foe and asking, “ Does ta know me ?” 

“ Water !” gasped Aske. 

“Ay, I’ll get it for thee.” 

There is always running water by a stone fence on a York- 
shire moor, and Burley knew, though it was silent under its 
coat of ice, it was there. But what should he bring it in ? He 
was a man good in emergencies, and he took out his watch, 
broke off the case, and filled it again and again with precious 
mouthfuls for the perishing man. 

“ Don’t leave me to die, Burley. I — will — give — up — the — 
suit !” whispered Aske. “ Save me, Burley.” 

“ Not for t’ biggest bill o’ damages iver given.” 

“ I’ll — give — up — the — mill, too.” 

“ Not for t’ mill, nor for all thou hast. But it’s Christmas- 
eve, and for Christ’s sake I’ll save thee if I can. My gig is 
close by, and I am going to lift thee into it. Bear up as well 
as ta can.” 

But with the first movement Aske became insensible, and 
Jonathan discovered that his head was bleeding profusely. He 
bound it with his own handkerchief as tightly as possible; then 
with his pocket-knife he cut loose Aske’s horse. “ It will let 
them know there’s summat wrong, and fetch help, happen.” 

Then he brought his gig as close as possible to Aske, and 
lifted the insensible man into it. The body of the vehicle was 
too small to allow Aske to be laid across it, but he supported 
him against himself, keeping his left arm around him, and hold- 
ing the reins with the right. He drove as rapidly as possible, 


112 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


and near the Hall gates met some grooms from the stables, who 
had been alarmed by the return of the riderless horse. Two of 
them remained to assist Burley with the wounded squire, the 
rest were sent in every direction in search of any medical aid 
that could be found. 

The force by which a man throws a good action out of him 
is invisible and mystical, like that which makes trees blossom 
and fruit, and Jonathan, in the pitiful, holv work of saving life, 
had never once remembered that it was the life of his bitterest 
enemy. Not until he was alone again did he take notice of 
his blood-stained hand and clothes, and recollect, with a shud- 
der, whose blood it was. 

Oh, if he had been thus stained with taking life instead of 
sparing it ! For one awful moment he had a revelation of a 
murderer’s terror and remorse ; the next, his heart rose in a 
wave of gratitude that found expression in a fervent, audible 
“ Thank God ! thank God !” And all the way home he was 
ejaculating, “ It might have been ! But for His mercy ! God 
forgive me ! God forgive me !” 


CHAPTER XI. 

SARAH AND STEVE’S TROUBLE. 

“ Earth would be heaven, if there were no mistakes in it; and if men 
could not spoil their whole life by one error.” 

“ The animosities perish ; the humanities are eternal.” 

“ Our bosoms heave to heaven ; our very heart throbs upward.” 

When Jonathan reached his home he drove to the back of 
the house, and calling the groom, he pointed out the condition 
of the vehicle, and told him to get it ready for Mistress Aske. 
The man looked at his master with an inquiring — almost a sus- 
picious — face, and Burley answered the look by pointing to his 
own clothing, and then describing, in a few words, the tragedy 
lie had been an actor in. 

“ But I don’t wonder at thy wrong thought o’ me, Jimmy,” 
he added, “ for I hev seen mysen the last hour as others must 
often hev seen me. Thank God, though, I hev clean hands 
yet, though they are dabbled wi’ Aske’s blood.” 

lie left the man then, but he could feel the doubt that still 
shadowed his face, and made him offer neither remark nor sym- 
pathy ; and he had a still more poignant sense of what horror 
and fear he must have endured had he been indeed guilty of 
his enemy’s death. 

Having hurriedly changed his clothing, he went to look for 
his daughter. She was lying on a sofa in the small parlor that 
was now their usual sitting-room. The fire was burning bright- 
ly, and the tray with the teacups on the table, but the lights 
were unlit, and her face was turned to the wall, for she had 
been weeping bitterly ever since her unexpected meeting with 
Anthony in the lane. When she heard her father’s step she 
8 


114 


BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 


made haste to dry her eyes, and as he entered the room she 
rose to meet him. 

In a moment she was aware of something unusual and terri- 
ble; Jonathan’s face had yet upon it the solemn shadow of one 
who has been in the awful presence of Death. She went to 
his side, and said, in a low voice, “ Father, what is it?” 

He put his arm around her, and answered, “ Thy husband 
hes been a’ but murdered. Now, if ta is half a woman thou 
wilt go to him.” 

She lifted her eyes quickly to his face, and there was a 
dreadful suspicion in them, but Jonathan promptly answered 
the question her lips durst not ask. 

“ Nay, nay, my lass. God saved thy father from that fate. 
I found Aske bleeding to death on t’ common, and I took him 
home. Now what is ta going to do?” 

“ I am going to him.” 

She spoke very quietly, and when the words were uttered, 
left the room to put on her bonnet and cloak. Jonathan was 
amazed at her composure; for when she came down -stairs, 
though she was pallid as a corpse, she made no outcry, and her 
manner was singularly still and calm. The gig was waiting, 
and he kissed her and sent her away without another word. 
.For a moment he stood listening to the departing wheels; then 
the burden of his care felt a little lighter. He had done what 
he could, and he began to be sensible that he was very weary, 
and almost fainting for lack of food. 

When Martha brought in his tea he thought it best to tell 
her the whole circumstance; and indeed he could not dismiss 
it from his mind. “ Such a Christmas-eve ! Such a Christmas- 
eve !” he kept saying over and over, as he sat smoking and 
musing in his own room ; for the last few hours had complete- 
ly altered the tenor of his strongest feelings. He was like a 
man that had been suddenly and rudely awakened out of a 
weird, uneasy dream. 

During his visit to Jonas Shuttle worth he had been constant- 
ly and steadily abusing Aske. He had talked of nothing else 


SARAH AND STEVE’S TROUBLE. 


115 


but the wrong Aske had done him, and the means and condi- 
tions of his revenge on Aske. He had stimulated his hatred 
until it had become the ruling passion of his life. Three hours 
ago he would have called any man “ friend ” who had brought 
him tidings of Aske’s probable death. 

And the miracle was this — he could not, he could not rekin- 
dle the flame of hatred against him. 

“I’m not mysen at all,” he muttered; “I’d be most willing 
to swear it wasn’t Jonathan Burley in my coat-sleeves to-night. 
Whativer hes come oover me? It is like as if God had said to 
me, ‘Jonathan Burley, thou hes done thy own way long enough. 
Turn thee round about and do My way !’ When t’ sun set to- 
night I hated Aske wi’ all my heart and soul. I thought I hed 
t’ best o’ reasons for hating him; and to think o’ me toiling 
and tewing to save Aske ! It’s past believing ! My word ! but 
God sends men on strange errands — and they go, too !’ v 

He did not sleep much ; and when he did sleep he was still 
aware of that helpless, bleeding form which he had supported 
in his arms. Once he dreamed that he had been the murderer 
of Aske, and he awoke in a sweat of agony. Then he realized 
how justly Christ Jesus declared the man who harbored mur- 
derous thoughts to be as morally guilty as the man who puts 
them into practice. He arose several times during the night 
and knelt down and thanked God because he had given him 
grace to save the man whom often in his heart he had ardently 
longed to kill. 

In the morning he had a note from Eleanor. She said an 
eminent London surgeon had been telegraphed for, but that the 
local physicians thought the case almost hopeless. There was 
already violent inflammation of the brain. The young Squire 
of Aske was lying unconscious on the verge of a bloody and 
untimely grave. The motive for the attack had evidently been 
robbery. Aske had been to Leeds, and had drawn a large sum 
of money from the Spinner’s Bank. Both it and his watch and 
rings were gone. As he read this information Jonathan re- 
membered the two men whom he had seen upon the common, 


116 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


and he went immediately to the police-station and described 
their appearance as well as he could. He felt then that he had 
done his full duty, and he tried in some measure to dismiss the 
event from his mind. 

But the very absence of Eleanor kept it present. That he 
should have sent her back to her husband was a part of the 
miracle which had set his life in an atmosphere of wonder. 
When he entered the parlor the thought was not in his mind. 
The words had sprung unconsciously to his lips. They had 
been no more the outcome of his own heart than was the hu- 
manity of his action to his bleeding enemy. Nay, the sending 
back of Eleanor was the more remarkable of the two events. 
It was the surrender of his sharpest weapon to his foe. “ It’s 
the Lord’s doing ! It’s the Lord’s doing !” he kept assuring 
himself; “and, doubtless, he knows how it is a’ to end, for it 
caps me !” 

It being Christmas-day also helped to rivet and to intensify 
the impressions of the circumstances. He gave much larger 
gifts to his household than usual, though he had never been 
less able to afford gifts; and after eating his solitary dinner he 
remembered that there was a festival at the chapel for the poor 
children of the congregation, and he determined to go and add 
something to its provision for them, though it should only be a 
petmy to each child. For his heart was full of a living, restless 
gratitude that could not find adequate expression in mere 
words. 

And yet it was a little effort to leave his warm, bright room 
and go out into the dark and slush ; for a drizzling rain had 
come on at noon, and with the rain a quick thaw. He thought 
for a moment of his horse and gig, but it was only for a mo- 
ment. “ There would be varry little merit in doing a kindness, 
and making t’ poor nag bear t’ brunt of iverything unpleasant 
about it. I’ll button up and carry mysen to t’ chapel.” And 
so with quick, resolute steps which kept time to some melody 
in his own heart, he went that Christmas night to the children’s 
festival. 


SARAII AND STEVE’S TROUBLE. 


m 


He had changed a couple of sovereigns into pennies on his 
way through the village, and he was soon filling the small hands 
stretched out to him. “ Tell your mammies Burley said these 
were for spice for yoursens. You are to buy taffy or owt you 
like with ’em.” And' if a man wants to taste the delight of 
genuine gratitude he must cater for the happiness of little chil- 
dren," Burley got a full two sovereigns’ worth of pleasure, and 
with a light heart, trustful and trusting, he turned homeward 
again. 

It was a soaking, wretched night, but as he passed the police- 
station he saw Sarah Benson come out of it. She drew her 
shawl over her head and hurried on, but he soon overtook her. 

“ Sarah, my dear lass, a good Christmas to thee !” 

She turned to him with a little cry, and a face so white and 
sorrowful that it shocked him ; then, lifting her apron, she be- 
gan to sob behind it. 

“ Sarah ! Sarah ! Whatever is it — joy ?” 

“ It’s the childer, master — the poor little childer. They are 
cold and hungry, and Joyce hed another little lass yesterday, 
and she’s varry bad off. I’m most beside mysen !” 

“Where’s Steve?” 

“Thet is t’ worst of a’ ! He hesn’t been home for two days, 
and he knew Joyce was like to be ill any hour. There must be 
summat wrong, I’m sure, for Steve is none bad-hearted.” 

“ Was ta at ‘ station ’ about him ?” 

“ Ay ; I went to ask if they hed heard tell o’ any accident, 
and they acted varry queer-like. I’m most broken - hearted, I 
think.” 

“ Go thee straight home, Sarah. I’ll bring iverything that is 
needful to thee. My word ! but I am glad I came out to-night.” 

In half an hour bread and meat, and milk and coals, were at 
the cottage ; and Jonathan, who was very wet, sat down by the 
fire to warm and dry his feet. How could he help watching 
Sarah amid her many cares and duties, with eyes full of pity ? 
The children were to feed and undress. The sick mother, half 
unconscious and very hard to manage, kept continually calling 


118 


BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 


her. It was easy to see that upon Sarah the whole helpless 
family leaned. 

As she was walking a sickly little child to sleep, a woman 
opened the door and looked in with a troubled face. Sarah 
caught the look and stopped suddenly. 

“ Oh, woman ! woman !” she cried, “ what is t’ matter? Where 
is Steve ? Dost ta know ?” 

“ Ay, I’m sorry to say he’s in prison, Sarah ; I am that.” 

Sarah did not scream or faint. Her blood rushed to her 
face, and then back in a choking tide to her heart. 

“Who told thee so?” 

“ My man saw him and Jerry Yates and Mike Todd brought 
to t’ lock-up.” 

“ Did ta hear what for ?” 

“ Ay ; they are took for robbing Squire Aske. T’ squire is 
badly hurt, too, and folks say it will be murder, and no less.” 

“ Master, dost thou know owt? Is this true about t’ squire?” 

“ I must tell thee it is, Sarah. I’m varry sorry — ” 

“Then leave me alone, will you? Polly — master — go away; 
I want to be by mysen a bit.” 

A great grief is a great consecration. Both instantly and 
pityingly obeyed her request. But as Jonathan went out he 
said, “Don’t fret more than thou can help, Sarah. I don’t be- 
lieve Steve bed anything to do wi’ t’ robbery of Squire Aske. I 
don’t believe he knew anything about it ; but I’ll go and see him 
first thing to-morrow morning. I wouldn’t wonder if this isn’t 
going to be t’ varry best thing iver happened Steve. Tak’ my 
word for it, things will come right in t’ long run.” 

“ Oh, master ! I hev given my whole life to t’ lad ; and now, 
it seems like t’ ending is to be a prison, or maybe worse.” 

“But where would he hev been but for thee? Think of 
that. Sarah, it is for t’ sick woman and for t’ little childer; 
thou must take it and he laid a five-pound note upon the 
table. 

“Thank thee; I’ll take it. I’m none above taking help 
when I can’t help mysen any longer.” 


SARAH AND STEVE’S TROUBLE. 119 

Early in the morning Burley went to see Steve Benson. The 
poor miserable man was quite broken down with his misfort- 
une ; and in spite of his anger Jonathan could not help feeling 
a great pity for such a complete failure as Steve had proved, 
lie had still the frank, open face, and the candid, careless man- 
ner which had always won him, not only favor with women, but 
a singular degree of toleration for men. Steve had undoubted- 
ly been a lazy fellow, but he had not deteriorated as fast nor as 
badly in the society of nature as he would have done in the 
society of human beings of his own kind. 

Ere Jonathan was aware he had dropped the stern rough 
mien which he had thought it right to assume, and was listen- 
ing to Steve’s story, with every desire to find in it an apology 
for his situation. 

“You see, master,” the culprit said, “I left home two days 
before Christmas to try and make a few shillings by cutting 
greens and mistletoe, and selling them. Look at my clothes, 
master ; and I lied not been able to give mysen a full meal for 
a long time. IIow could I stand t’ cold ? Nobody likes t’ 
woods better than I do ; and I knew well where t’ finest berries 
and holly were; but I could scarce walk or work for t’ cold. I 
was falling asleep all t’ time ; and I was feared to give way, lest 
I’d niver wake again. Not that it would hev made much differ- 
ence to any on« — ” 

“ It’s a shame o’ thee to say that. Thee, that lies such a 
sister! and a good wife, and little childer, too!” 

“Poor Sarah ! She lies borne and borne iverything for me. 
And, master, it isn’t my fault ; I have tried.” 

“It is thy fault — thou hesn’t tried. There was always work 
waiting for thee at my mill, and niver a fault flung in thy 
face.” 

“ Master, thou likes thy mill. Thou doesn’t mind t’ heat, and 
t’ smell, and t’ close work. I hate t’ mill. I hate t’ heat of it ; 
it makes my head burn and throb. I hate t’ smell of it; it 
turns me sick as death ; and all t’ time I’m deafened wi’ t’ noise 
of it, I hear t’ sea in my ears, and I remember t’ cool salt air, 


120 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


and I hev to go to it. Thou can’t judge me. I wan’t to do 
right and I hevn’t t’ power to do it.” 

“God forbid I should judge thee, Steve. But how about 
this affair of Aske’s? Thou wert taken with a varry bad 
couple.” 

“ I know I was. Ta sees, on Christmas-eve I bed four shillings, 
and I thought I would go home with it. Just below Longley’s 
mill I met Billy Britton, and he was beating his donkey, like 
the brute he is, beyond iverything ! I just said a few words to 
him about it, and then he turned on me, and he would hev given 
me my fairings if Yates and Todd hedn’t come up. Well, 
master, you know yoursen you’d hev thought it right to be 
civil to men as hed helped you out o’ Billy Britton’s clutches ; 
and when Todd said, ‘ Come and hev a glass at t’ “ Ring o’ 
Bells,” Steve,’ I said, ‘ And thank’ee both,’ and went.” 

“ What time on Christmas-eve v r as that ?” 

“ I don’t know exactly ; but soon afterwards I heard t’ clock 
in t’ Ring o’ Bells strike seven ; and I said, ‘ 1 hev to get home, 
lads, now,’ and in a bit I left them. But w|ien I put my hand 
in my pocket my four shillings were gone ; and I thought to 
mysen, ‘There’s no use going home now. Joyce will cry and 
scold, and Sarah’s still white face I can’t abear to see.’ So I 
crept in among Squire Thornbury’s hay, and slept till Christ- 
mas afternoon. Then I went up to t’ big house and got a real 
good dinner, and t’ butler hed a fiddle, and I played for ’em till 
dark ; and perhaps I hed too much spiced ale, for when I passed 
t’ Ring o’ Bells again I saw Todd and Yates still drinking there; 
and they shouted to me, and said, ‘ Come in for thy Christmas 
cup,’ and while I was drinking it t’ police came and took us all 
three up. T’ landlady swore I’d come in t’ night before with 
Todd and Yates, and that was true enough ; but it looked bad 
for me, and so I hed to come here.” 

“ I believe thou hast told me t’ truth, Steve ; but oh, dear 
me ! what a fool thou hes been !” 

“ Thou thinks so, master, I don’t doubt. God gave thee t’ 
art o’ making money ; and me t’ art o’ playing on t’ fiddle, and 


SARAH AND STEVE’S TROUBLE. 


121 


understanding what t’ birds are singing about ; and I can tell 
thee, master, they think varry little o’ men ahd women — and t’ 
way in general of getting on varry friendly terms wi’ all nature 
that isn’t human nature. There’s some kind o’ work I could 
do, but it isn’t weaving; however, when I get out o’ this, no- 
body will give me weaving to do.” 

“ Thou art wrong there. I will give thee weaving to do. I’ll 
niver take thy loom from thee, and I hope thou wilt lay this 
trouble to heart and be a better man for it when ta gets back 
to thy work — if ta ever does get back. Hes ta heard thou lies 
another daughter, and that Joyce isn’t doing as well as might 
be?” 

“ I heard that this morning. Poor Joyce ! And little lass, 
too ! It’s none of her fault she’s got me for a daddy. Master! 
master ! look a bit after them for me, will ta ? For their sakes 
I’ll buckle down to work when I get out, and I’ll do my best ; 
I will that. Thou might send Joyce word I said so.” 

“ I’ll not see them want, Steve, thou may be sure ; but I do 
think thou is a careless, shiftless fellow. Daily work is t’ varry 
backbone o’ any life, Steve; and till thou does it thou will niver 
stand up as a man should do.” 

In all these events Jonathan had missed Ben Holden very 
much. Ben had gone to Otley to spend his Christmas with his 
sister who lived there; and Jonathan wondered what he would 
say, and was impatient for his return. He told himself that it 
was Ben’s advice he wanted ; but really he wanted to hear Ben’s 
praise of his own conduct. 

“ My word ! but Ben will be taken aback ! I wonder what- 
iver Ben thought when he read o’ me carrying Aske home ? I 
think he’ll be a bit proud o’ me?” 

Such were his reflections when he remembered his friend, 
for in the course of three or four days Barley had come to be 
a bit proud of himself in the matter. “ It isn’t many men as 
would hev done as I did. I think I may say that much for 
my sen, anyway !” was a very frequent decision with him. 

Ben Holden came home at the end of the holidays, and his 


122 


BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 


first words were : “ Well, Jonathan, thou lies had a good Christ- 
mas ! Very few men hev hed as grand a chance to keep it as 
thou best.” 

“ Ay, Ben, I’m glad I did it. It isn’t many men as would 
hev done it.” 

Ben did not answer. 

“ Doesn’t ta think so, Ben ?” 

“ Nay, I don’t. I think there’s varry few men that wouldn’t 
hev done just as thou did, and them few wouldn’t be worth 
counting among men at a’. I hear Mistress Aske hes gone 
back to her home.” 

“ Ay, I sent her t’ night he was hurt.” 

“ Well, now, I’ll praise thee for that. It’s a deal easier to 
do a grand thing than a just thing. Them that are joined to- 
gether should learn to draw together/ Not even a father hes 
t’ right to put ’em asunder.” 

“Thou that reckons to know so much about wedding, why 
doesn’t ta try it ?” 

“Happen I may yet? There’s older men than me, I’ll 
warrant, thinking about it.” 

Jonathan took no notice of this remark — perhaps it touched 
him too nearly — but he asked, in reply, “ Has ta heard that 
Steve Benson is in prison about Aske’s robbery ?” 

“ I hev. Wbo’d hev thought that Steve would turn out 
such a bad halfpenny?” 

“They say, ‘as t’ twig is bent, t’ tree’s inclined.’ I don’t 
know about that. I am sure Steve hed a rare good mother, 
and she were always trying to bend t’ twig in t’ right direction.” 

“Ay; but if t’ twig is a willow twig to start wi’, Jonathan, 
no amount o’ bending will iver make it an oak. Steve hed 
some good points, but he never hed much backbone.” 

Immediately after his visit to his uncle Shuttleworth, Jona- 
than had very gladly posted on his mill gates this notice — 
“ Wanted, Five Hundred Good Weavers.” Most of the appli- 
cants had come from Sykes’s mill, and every one who did so 
was sure of a favorable reception. For Burley’s change of 


SARAH AND STEVE’S TROUBLE. 


123 


feeling did not by any means include Sykes ; be bad for bim, 
not only hatred, but also that contempt which, perhaps justly 
enough, every man feels for the tools of mischief and malice. 

Sykes was confounded by this movement, especially as 
Matthew Rhodes declined, about the same time, “ for reasons 
satisfactory to himself,” to advance more money without Aske’s 
direction. And Aske lay helpless on the very shoal of outer- 
most being, far below the restless tides of money or revenge. 

“ I don’t know whatever has happened, Hodgson,” he said 
to his overseer; “all that was. right is wrong; and the change 
has come that sudden, there wasn’t any chance to prepare for 
it. Aske’s illness knocks me up on one side, and Burley get- 
ting money on the other, for I’m sure Burley has got money 
somewhere.” 

“ I heard tell that old Jonas Shuttleworth lied lifted Burley’s 
quarrel ; if so, Aske might as well give in. Jonas lies t’ devil’s 
own luck in a quarrel of any*kind.” 

“ Jonas Shuttleworth ! Niver !” 

“Ay, and besides that, I hear that he is Burley’s own uncle; 
blood is thicker than water when it comes to t’ pinch.” 

“ It is a bad job, Hodgson.” 

“ Ay, it is — for Sykes & Co.” 

“ Art thou turning thy coat, too?” 

“ Nay, not I. I praise t’ bridge I walk oover — as long as 
iver it carries me.” 

Sykes turned angrily away. Some men like to look at 
whatever hurts them, and Sykes, following out some internal 
impulse, walked down by the stream towards Burley’s mill. It 
had already an unusual look of prosperity. Poverty and trou- 
ble have some impalpable atmosphere that their dwelling-place, 
even if it be a palace, cannot escape. From Burley’s mill this 
atmosphere had suddenly vanished. Sykes was aware -of a 
change; a change too subtle for him to understand, but lie felt 
it. As he swaggered past the gates Jonas Shuttleworth turned 
the corner of the mill and came towards him. 

Sykes would have passed on, but Jonas stopped him. “So 


124 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


it’s thee, is it? Well, well. Aske hed to go down low to find 
a tool ! He lied that !” 

“ Mr. Shuttle worth, I want nothing whatever to do with you.” 

“ Yarry likely thou doesn’t. But I partic’Iarly want to hev 
something to do wi’ thee. In t’ first place, I’ll give thee no- 
tice to look out for another job. I’m thinking o’ shutting up 
t’ mill thou is running now. I hev got my thumb on t’ proper 
screw now, and thou will find it out when thy afternoon mail 
comes in. Thet is a’ I hev to say to thee at present.” And 
surely enough among Sykes’s letters that afternoon there was 
one from Matthew Rhodes, directing him to annoy Burley no 
further until he received orders to do so. 

Jonathan was at Leeds Market that day, and perhaps Shut- 
tle worth knew it. However, Ben Holden and the old man 
fraternized at once. They went through the mill together, and 
nothing in it escaped Shuttle worth’s sharp eyes. 

“ It’s a fine mill,” he said, approvingly, “ and it’s well man- 
aged. It hesn’t a fault but its bad neighbor. We’ll hev either 
to own Sykes’s mill or put a friend into it, Ben Holden.” 

“ I would hev said two weeks ago that either plan was an 
impossibility.” 

“It’s t’ impossibilities thet always happen, Ben. If I am 
going to put money out I think little o’ t’ returns thet are 
probable. I’d rather risk t’ improbable ones; nine times out 
o’ ten they are t’ surest. When I took hold o’ Burley’s affairs 
I thought they were in a bad fix ; things hev happened since 
that alters them, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“ I hear t’ squire is varry low this morning.” 

“ Poor young fellow ! If he was t’ worst enemy I iver hed 
I would be sorry for him. I like fair play above iverything, 
and Aske hedn’t a bit of it; struck down from behind, and not 
a word o’ warning ! I don’t wish his death ; varry far from it. 
I’d a deal rather fight him honest and square, through ivery 
court in England. Bless thee, Ben, T hevn’t a bit o’ ill-will to 
t’ men I go to law with. I could give my hand to t’ most o’ 
them I hev got damages from. But I do wish I hed known 

was A n mi st.n a .1 Svtpft flint tuoc lWliAinnn. » 


SARAH AND STEVE’S TROUBLE. 


125 


“Then ta knows him?” 

“Ay, I know him. We hev hed some business together. 
It wasn’t varry pleasant business. He owed me a sum o’ mon- 
ey five years ago, and I sold him up. Now, when Jonas Shut- 
tleworth sells a man up, he lies a good reason for it; be sure o’ 
that, Ben Holden. I’m going back to Keighley now, and thou 
can tell Burley 1 was here, and that I thought well o’ iverything 
1 saw here.” 

But these were days in which Jonathan found it almost im- 
possible to keep his mind upon wool and profits. A singular 
liking had returned to his heart for the man whom he had 
saved. In the first years of his accpiaintance with Aske he had 
greatly admired the young squire, and been very proud of his 
connection with him. Persistently now his memory went back 
to those days. A few times Aske had called him “ Father he 
remembered every occasion, and then, with a shuddering pity, 
recalled the last few imploring words he had heard him speak; 
his grateful glance for the mouthfuls of cold water; his own 
eager efforts to bind up the wounded head — the helpless, bleed- 
ing weight he had carried through the dim light of that never- 
to-be-forgotten Christmas-eve. 

Early every day he had driven across the common to ask 
after his son-in-law’s condition, and Eleanor had come down to 
him with a constantly more hopeless face. “He is worse.” 

“ He is sinking fast.” “ He has never recognized me.” Only 
such sad sentences passed between father and daughter. In the 
parlor in which she usually spoke to him there was a full-length 
portrait of her, taken in the first happy days of her married 
life. Jonathan glanced at it one morning, and then at the pale, 
sorrowful woman standing below it, and he went away with a 
heart heavy with unavailing regrets. 

“ Oh, but a wrong way is a hard way ! Oh, but a wrong • 
way is a hard way !”• 

lie said the words over and over as he drove away from the 
large still house, and amid the clack-a-ty, clack- a-ty of the noisy 
looms they kept springing to his lips. 


126 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


That night, soon after he got home, there came to him a 
sorrowful note from Eleanor. “ A few hours now,” she said, 
“ would decide the fate of her husband ; and oh, father, father ! 
pray for him !” 

The entreaty spoke to Jonathan’s heart like a command 
from God. He rose up, even from his dinner-table, and went 
into his own room, and, when he had locked the door, fell upon 
his knees, and poured out his soul anew in love and gratitude. 
And while he was praying the fire burned, and he washed out 
the bitterness of his hate in penitential tears, and in strong sup- 
plications for the life of his enemy. 

There are moments in life which are at once sacrificial and 
sacramental — moments that are a crucible from which the soul 
comes out white and strong; and these were such moments to 
Jonathan Burley. He rose up f,rom his knees like one of old, 
“justified,” and with the light of divine consolation on his 
face. Fear was gone, and condemnation ; and there was no 
room in his heart for anything but the love of God. He un- 
derstood, then, how he that separates himself from his fellow 
by hatred, separates himself, also, from Christ and God, 'and 
casts himself into an abyss of diseased self-consciousness. In 
the abyss Jonathan now felt he must have perished of his own 
lovelessness, if he had not been sought by infinite compassion, 
and found the mercy of the Merciful One. 

It was in this new strength that his eye fell upon a little 
book of sacred song which lay upon his table, and which had 
often had a word for him in due season. He opened it in the 
hope, and this verse answered his inquiry : 

“ Amidst the mighty, where is he 
Who saith, and it is done? 

Each varying scene of changeful life 
Is from the Lord alone. 

“ Why should a living man complain, 

Beneath the chast’ning rod ? 

Our sins afflict us ; and the cross 
Must briug us back to God.” 

Lamentations , iii., 37, 40. 


CHAPTER XII. 


BURLEY & ASKE. 

“We followed Him 

At other times in sunshine. Summer days 
And moonlight nights He led us over paths 
Bordered with pleasant flowers ; but when His steps 
Were on the mighty waters — when we went 
With trembling hearts through nights of pain and loss, 

His smile was sweeter, and His love more dear.” 

Jonathan had suffered in more than one way by his self- 
willed passion. Not only had his business fallen off, his good 
name had also suffered. Sykes had said many unfair things of 
him, and had insinuated still worse. In these days it is not hard 
to shrug away a man’s credit, and Burley had been made to 
frequently smart over wrongs too intangible for a denial ; even 
if denial had been wise. But hard as it was to do, he had gen- 
erally followed Ben Holden’s advice, and Ben always said, 
“ Never thee chase a lie, Jonathan. It will chase itself to death. 
Thou can work out a good name far better than Sykes can lie 
thee out of it.” 

And fortunately, in this world, men are not sharply divided 
into sheep and goats; the good are not all good, and the evil 
are not all evil, for Christianity is a more complex thing than 
the exuberant satisfaction of Hebrew prophecy ; and it touches 
deeper, tenderer, and more far-sounding chords of human ex- 
perience. Sad and anxious as life was to Jonathan at this 
time, it had its glimpses of hope and its hours of happiness ; 
and though Aske and Sykes had been hard to bear, their con- 
trariness had only strengthened Ben Holden’s friendship, and 
drawn to him not only the sympathy and help of Jonas Shut- 
tleworth, but also, in lesser degrees, of many others. 


7 


128 BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 

In a way scarcely to be explained, Jonathan realized these 
facts, and applied them to bis own experience as he sat up that 
night waiting for the answer to his prayer. He had told the 
servants to go to bed, but none of them had done so. The two 
men sat with the two women in the kitchen ; and they had “a 
bit of something warm,” and as they ate, they talked — not with- 
out some genuine pity — of the young squire lying at death’s 
door. Jonathan walked up and down his chamber, solemnly, 
strangely happy, and softly praying at intervals. He could not 
help feeling that at any moment Aske might pass beyond even 
his pity and forgiveness; and he was so afraid of letting any 
selfish thoughts influence him at that hour that he would not 
suffer his memory to look back a moment. 

About two o’clock in the morning the message for which he 
had been waiting came. “ Aske had been conscious ; he had 
recognized his wife ; the physicians thought his final recovery 
was now probable.” When Jonathan read the bit of paper a 
great wave of gratitude came over his heart, and he said, fer- 
vently, “ Thank God ! thank God !” Then he laid it down and 
stood and looked at it. He had not yet got over the miracle 
of his own changed feelings. And another miracle was, that he 
found it difficult to recall that terrible interval during which 
passion had been his master instead of his slave; his memory 
passed it at a bound, and lingered rather among the sunshiny 
days of Eleanor’s courtship — days in which he had thought 
there never was a young man so kind and gentlemanly, and 
withal so prudent in his affairs and positions, as Anthony Aske. 

His next thought was, “ Poor Eleanor !” And, indeed, Elea- 
nor needed his sympathy. She had had to go through hours 
of sore trial, the very nature of which Jonathan hardly under- 
stood, and which can only be inflicted by women. On her .re- 
turn home she had been met by Mrs. Parsons, her house-keeper, 
with a polite but extreme coldness, and, though that personage 
scrupulously obeyed her orders, Eleanor could feel that the 
service was given under mental protest. 

And oh, how the familiar rooms reproached her! She re- 


BURLEY & ASKE. 


129 “ 


membered with what loving lavishness Anthony had adorned 
them for her reception. And though she had so wickedly aban- 
doned her home and duty he had permitted nothing of hers to 
be disturbed. Her rich and beautiful clothing hung in the 
wardrobes as she had left it. The jewels and laces she had 
been wearing were still lying loosely scattered over her dressing- 
table. Alas ! alas ! what sorrow and shame, what anxiety and 
loss, what heart-burnings and heartaches, that night’s sinful 
passion had caused ! 

She took her place by her husband’s sick-bed at once, and 
she remained there through all kinds of unspoken disapproval. 
Her sleepless service, her patient love, her never-wearying watch, 
were all doubtfully regarded. Not a servant on the place pitied 
her exhaustion, or believed in her affection or repentance. 

“ It’s her jointure and her widow’s right she’s watchings” said 
Mrs. Parsons, indignantly. 

And it was not only the servants who held this opinion. In 
one form or other all of the squire’s friends and retainers were 
sure of his wife’s selfishness. Had he died, it was not improb- 
able that they would have felt still harder towards her, and put 
a still darker interpretation on her devotion by his sick-bed. 
The Bashpooles honestly regarded her presence as suspicious 
and dangerous, and if the unhappy wife’s positive orders and 
determination had not been steadily supported by the attend- 
ing physicians, Squire Bashpoole would very likely have made 
an active and unpleasant interference. 

When Anthony came to himself it was about an hour after 
midnight. He had been in a profound sleep for fourteen hours, 
and Eleanor had suffered no foot to enter the corridor in which 
he lay. She was cold, she was hungry, she was on the point 
of exhaustion, but she stirred not. In a large chair by his side 
she sat motionless, waiting for life or death. At length she no- 
ticed him breathe more audibly. The gray shadow gradually 
passed like a cloud from his face. Slowly he opened his eyes, 
slowly and vvonderingly, as if he were just coming into a new 
world. They rested upon the eager, loving, sorrowful face, 
9 


130 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


breathlessly watching him. A faint smile parted his lips, and 
he whispered, “ Eleanor /” 

“ Anthony /” 

She bent to his wasted hands and kissed them. He felt her 
tears dropping upon his face. There was no need of words. In 
that supreme moment their souls met and understood each other. 

And in less than an hour the nurse on duty had let the whole 
household know that “ Master and Missis were friends.” Then 
the cold cloud of doubt and suspicion in which she had dwelt 
so wretchedly began to part; and Eleanor soon found that the 
squire’s pardon included that of his household. And it was 
pleasant to be again served with smiles and good wishes; to be 
sympathized with in her weariness, to have even Mrs. Parsons 
bring her dainty dishes of strengthening food, and insist on her 
taking little rests ; to be, in short, thoroughly forgiven and taken 
into favor again. 

Anthony was, for many days after his awakening, only just 
alive. He had been somewhere out of this real life — not there , 
not here — but into an awful land, a land of the shadow of death, 
“ a land that no man passed through, and where no man dwelt 

V But while he lay at death’s door, two strong angels took him, 

And swung him in a hammock made of cloud ; 

With an undulating motion, from the west to east they shook him, 
Lying plastic, and in mist, as in a shroud. 

“ They towered above the earth, as do elms above the grasses, 

And even-handed, swung him to and fro; 

He felt the vibrant life, and the sharp, contending passes 
Of streams of air which grapple as they flow. 

“ The angels swung him over seas, whose sounding drums did thrill him, 
And back above the homes of sleeping men ; 

They swung him over mountains that their piney breath might fill him, 
They swept an arc from stars to stars again. 

“ The man lay at death’s door. But the cradle of hereafter 
Rocked slowly — slowly settled from its sweep. 

‘He has caught a broader life,’ said the angels, with soft laughter; 

‘ Let him sleep ! Let him sleep ! Let— him — sleep !’ ” 


BURLEY & ASKE. 


131 


And so sleeping, he came back to earth, to health, to happi- 
ness. And never in all her life had Eleanor spent more calmly 
blissful hours than those in which she sat by her husband’s 
side, watching this marvellous return. 

The subject of the brutal attack on Aske, as the cause of his 
illness, was not named to him, and for some time after conscious- 
ness returned he did not allude to it. If remembered at all, 
the memory was only a part of all the hideous phantoms which 
had peopled the period of his delirium. 

One day, about the middle of February, he was moved to a 
couch near the window. He had promised to sleep, and Elea- 
nor left him alone and went to make some change in her dress. 
But he glanced out of the window, and suddenly the desire for 
sleep left him-. Between the leafless trees he saw the broad, 
white spaces of Aske Common, and the spire of the church. In 
some way they touched a key of memory, which gave him back 
the whole scene of Christmas-eve. 

Quick and vivid as a dream every circumstance passed before 
him. The faces of the men who attacked him — their voices, 
their dress, the seizure of his horse, the dreadful blow from be- 
hind; his effort to turn, to steady himself; his fall, the bitter 
cold, the slow, agonizing return to consciousness, the bending 
face of Burley, the drops of water, the encouraging words, and 
the strong arms whose embrace was his last remembrance — all 
these things he lived over again. 

He had been tormented and haunted by unreal and impossi- 
ble visions ; but these things he knew were realities. He made 
an effort, and carried his memory further back — to that lonely 
lane, and the sad-faced woman he had met in it, and from whom 
he had fled in such a whirl of passions as made him a ready 
prey for the two cowardly assassins who had been waiting be- 
hind the wall for him. Back a little further, and with a great 
rush of hot blood came a vivid, chafing remembrance of his quar- 
rel with Burley, and of the evil fruit it had brought forth. 

When Eleanor returned to him, radiant in ruby-colored silk 
and fine lace, she was almost frightened at the expression on his 


132 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


face; it was so solemn and so full of purpose — Burley had 
saved his life; and yet he knew not what wrongs had been 
done Burley while he had been unconscious. Why had his fa- 
ther-in-law not been to see him ? It must be because he was 
still suffering from the oppressions he had inaugurated. How 
ungrateful Burley must have thought him! And ingratitude 
is one of those mean sins, the very suspicion of which makes a 
fine spirit burn with shame and resentment. 

“ Eleanor,” he said, gravely, “ I want to see your father. Has 
he ever called here since — that night ?” 

“ Oh yes ; he came every morning to ask after you, until you 
were out of danger.” 

“ But not since ?” 

“ He thought it better not, dear Anthony.” 

“ Yes— he thought I might not like to see the man who saved 
my life! My dear wife, am I so mean and contemptible? I 
had forgotten, that was all. This hour everything has been 
brought to my remembrance. Write to your father in my 
name. Tell him I want to see him. Tell him that I would 
have gone to him if I had been able.” 

When Burley got the note he was just about to leave the 
mill. The day was nearly over; and it had been one of those 
fretful days, which are made thoroughly unpleasant and unprof- 
itable by a series of small inabilities and little worries. It must 
be acknowledged that Jonathan was cross, and that Ben Holden 
was cross at him for being so. 

“ Here is come Aske’s groom with a letter for thee.” 

“ Aske’s groom ! Now then, what trouble is up next?” 

“ I don’t know, I’m sure, Jonathan. But thou lies been mak- 
ing trouble all t’ day ; happen it will do thee good to hev some 
ready-made,” and he laid the letter down at his side, and left 
the office. 

In a few minutes Jonathan called to him. “I do believe, 
Ben, thou would hev liked me to hev a bit o’ fresh worry ; but, 
my word ! thou is out this time. My Eleanor says, Aske re- 
membered me this afternoon ; and he wants to see me, and says 


BURLEY & ASKE. 


133 


lie would hev come here if he had been strong enough to do it. 
What does ta think of that ? Now I’m going to Aske, and we’ll 
see what will come of it.” 

“ Good will come of it, if thou can only put a bridle on thy 
tongue, and not expect to get more than thy share of thy own 
way.” 

“ Thou art as cross as two sticks, Ben. Does ta think thou 
lies got my share o’ good-sense as well as thy own ? I wouldn’t 
be as hard to get along with as thou art, for a good deal.” 

But in spite of sharp words, Ben helped Jonathan into his 
gig; and Jonathan, ere he passed out of the big gates, looked 
back and nodded to Ben. And as Ben trailed his long legs up 
the weary flights of stone steps once more, he said to himself, 
“ Poor Jonathan ! He’s hed a deal to make him grumpy. If 
he hedn’t a sweet nature he’d be sour as crab-apples by this 
time.” 

Eleanor’s note had thoroughly pleased her father. Burley 
longed for peace, not because he had turned weak-hearted or 
had lost faith in himself and his claims, but because he loved 
Aske. Yes ! he loved the man who had been driving him to 
ruin and despair for nearly four years. He longed to see him 
again. He longed to clasp his hand, and to make him feel how 
completely he had forgiven him. 

The evening was not unlike the one on which he had seen 
him last, wounded, bleeding, dying. The snow still lay white 
and unbroken in Aske Park; the sky was flecked with cold, 
feathery clouds, and through the mist stealing over the land- 
scape the lights of the many-windowed mills gleamed steadily 
through the bare trees on every side. 

Burley had not really been astonished at Aske’s message. He 
had expected it. He knew Aske’s heart by his own. He was 
certain that he would be as ready to acknowledge a kindness as 
he was prompt to resent an injury. Still, he felt that the in- 
terview was one requiring not only great kindness, but also 
great prudence. Under the pressure of circumstances, calling 
forth all the tenderness of his heart, he must not be tempted to 


134 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


resign the smallest claim of justice. “ There’s things he’ll hev 
to hear, sick or not sick,” he said to himself ; “ where I hev 
been wrong I’ll say so, but I’ll not give in where I hev been 
right.” 

Eleanor met him at the door, and his face glowed with pleas- 
ure to see her. This beautiful woman in silk and lace and jew- 
els, with servants at her bidding, and the light of love and hap- 
piness on her face, was indeed his daughter. He put his memory 
of the white, sorrowful Eleanor, clothed in worn black garments, 
behind her for evermore. The entrance hall was in itself a 
beautiful apartment, with an enormous fire burning at one end, 
and silver sconces, filled with wax-lights, illuminating the pict- 
ures and cabinets and curiously carved old chairs with which 
it was furnished. 

A groom was waiting for his gig, a footman in livery received 
his hat and overcoat; ere he was aware of it, he had fallen into 
the spirit of the surroundings, and, after tenderly kissing his 
daughter, he offered her his arm up the great staircase. It 
seemed a natural thing to do there, and he did it without ever 
reminding himself how little ceremony had been shown to Ele- 
anor when she was a refugee wife under a cloud of social dis- 
approval. 

The squire had soon wearied of the couch and was in bed 
when Jonathan entered his room. He turned his large gray 
eyes, hollow and with the look of anguish still in them, upon 
him. The strong man was inexpressibly shocked at the change 
which had taken place. “My lad!, my lad!” he said, with a 
pitiful solemnity, for he saw a face with the shadow of the 
grave yet on it, and the hand Aske stretched out was far too 
weak to return Jonathan’s clasp. 

Aske did not speak, but he looked in the broad, rosy face 
of his antagonist, and there was something so pathetic in the 
look that Burley could not resist its mute appeal. 

“ I am varry sorry, Aske. I am that.” 

“ I am very sorry also, and very grateful, Burley. You saved 
my life.” 


SUKLEY & ASKE, 


135 


“lam right glad I saved it.” 

“ I have wronged you — robbed you and wronged you !” 

“ Ay, thou hes. That is t’ truth about it.” 

“ I want to remedy the wrong as far as it is possible. Will 
you drop the suit ? I will pay all expenses.” 

“ Thou can stop it to-morrow. I’ll be right glad to hev it 
stopped.” 

“ As for the damages — ” 

“ To be sure. They hev to be considered. I hev lost a deal 
o’ money.” 

“ I will give up the new mill, with all pertaining to it.” 

“ Why, ta sees I hevn’t money to run both mills. If I rent 
it to a stranger I’ll hev trouble again.” 

“ Eleanor has something to say to you, father. I hope you 
will let her do what she wishes. It is hard to be sorry and 
have no tangible way to show regret in.” 

“ Father, I brought all this trouble on you and on Anthony.” 

“ Thou did. I’m glad thou hes found it out, and I forgive 
thee with all my heart.” 

“ I have made you lose more than the fifty thousand pounds 
you gave me as a marriage-portion.^” 

“ I think thou hes.” 

“Take the fifty thousand pounds back. If I prove myself 
worthy of it you can restore it when you are more able to do 
so.” 

“ Well, my lass, I like this in thee. If Aske is willing, I am. 
With my uncle Slnittleworth to back me and thy fifty thou- 
sand pounds I can run both mills until they run themselves. 
Neither Aske nor thee will lose by it in t’ end.” 

“ Burley, shake hands with me. From this hour it shall be 
‘ Burley & Aske.’ In all that is to be for your welfare, I’ll 
put my foot against yours. I am sure you will be true to the 
life you saved.” 

“ Before God, I will, Aske. Thou shalt be my son and my 
younger brother, and the man that touches thee to harm thee 
will hev to answer for it to Jonathan Burley.” 


136 


BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 


“ I will have the proper papers made out as soon as possible. 
Is there anything I can do now ?” 

“Could thou write thy name?” 

“ I think I could.” 

“Well, then, I’ll write an order to Sykes to give up all in 
Aske mill to me, to-morrow, and thou can sign it. He lies 
been saying some things about me not to be borne ; and I want 
him out of t’ reach of my hand. I came varry near striking 
him only this afternoon.” 

“ It is right he should go. Write the order, and I will sign 
it.” 

It would be foolish to say that Jonathan had no personal 
feeling in the matter. He had. He was really glad to get the 
better of an enemy so mean and so wicked ; and it did give him 
a most keen pleasure to say to Ben Holden in the morning, 

“ Ben, get Lawyer Newby to go with thee to Sykes. Show 
him that bit. o’ paper, and give him my compliments — nay, thou 
needn’t make any compliments about it. Just tell him Jona- 
than Burley says to get out o’ his mill as quick as iver he can.” 

“ My word, Jonathan ! Does ta know what thou art talking 
about? Is ta thysen this morning?” 

“ I am. I am more mysen then I hev been for about four 
years. Man, I feel as if I lied dropped old Satan’s ball and 
chain. It is to be ‘Burley & Aske’ now; now, and always, 
‘ Burley & Aske.’ ” 

“I am glad thou lies come to thy senses, Jonathan. God 
bless thee !” 

“Thou always lies a snap, Ben. But don’t thee be losing 
time. I’m in a bit of a hurry about Sykes’s business. I hevirt 
heard t’ music of my own looms for t’ clatter o’ his in a long- 
time. Dear me, Ben ! such a day as we are lieving.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A QUESTION OF DUTY. 

“ The romance we love best is that which we write in our own heart.” 

“ The tumult of the time disconsolate 
To inarticulate murmurs dies away.” * 

“ The gods sell us all good things for labor.” 

Epicharmus. 

Happiness, like sunshine, cannot be hid. As Jonathan went 
through his mill that day he carried the atmosphere with him. 
II is face had the old open, straightforward look; his manner 
that auspicious, kindly imperativeness which so well became 
him. From frame to frame some intelligence passed. In a 
moment, in the twinkling of eyes, the thought was expressed 
and communicated, and unconsciously there was a quickening 
of work in sympathy with the mood. Jonathan did not say a 
word, but he wished them to feel that a better time had come ; 
and they did feel it, and so subtle and quick are such flashes of 
intelligent sympathy, that the master was also quite aware his 
workers had comprehended his hope, and shared it. 

In the upper room the one frame his eye instantly sought 
was empty. Sarah was absent, and he had a minute’s keen 
disappointment. He meant to have stopped at her loom, and 
said, at least, “All the trouble is over, Sarah.” It was also so 
very unusual to find her absent that his heart felt afraid, and 
he went back to his office and waited anxiously and impatient- 
ly for Ben’s return. 

Ben came in about an hour. lie had that uncomfortable 
habit of taking great events in a way so cool and slow as to 
be absolutely provoking and irritating to quicker natures. He 


138 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


took off his coat and vest and began quietly to put on his big 
pinafore, apparently quite unconscious of Jonathan’s impatience. 

“ Well ?” asked Jonathan, with a touch of temper, “ why 
doesn’t ta say something ? Did ta see Sykes ?” 

“ Ay, I saw him.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Nay, it wasn’t well. It was varry far from we.l. He 
called me ivery foul name he could think of, and he can think 
of a good many ; he can that.” 

“ What did ta say then ?” 

“ Why-a ! I told him that he couldn’t call me owt worse 
than I hed called mysen many a time ; but, says I, ‘ Let me 
alone, Sykes, and look after thy own concerns a bit. For, we 
hev come to t’ conclusion not to hev thee here another day ! 
Thou turns out nobbut t’ poorest kind of stuff, and trade is 
badly spoiled in this part o’ t’ country wi’ thy poor work.” 

“ Did ta say that ? I’m glad thou said it ! I am pleased ! 
Good for thee, Ben — good for thee !” and Burley knocked the 
table emphatically with his closed fist. 

“ I don’t think much o’ mysen for saying it. It isn’t more 
than half true. Some o’ Sykes’s merinos are fair enough ; but 
I knew it would make him madder than aught else I could say, 
and I didn’t stop to be particular. I hedn’t time just then ; 
but I hevn’t felt quite comfortable since.” 

“ What for, I’d like to know ?” 

“ Why, ta sees, I hev another Master besides thee. And 
happen I hevn’t pleased Him as well as I hev pleased thee. A 
man cannot serve two masters — God and — ” 

“ Wait a bit, Ben ; don’t call me Mammon. I sent thee to 
Sykes because I was feared I’d say too much. Now, I’m feared 
thou hesn’t said enough. If ta hed told him that he was a mean, 
contemptible rascal, and reminded him that such ways as his 
don’t pay in t’ long run, thou would hev done no more than 
thy duty. And I don’t think much o’ thee for not doing it. 
I didn’t want thee to give railing for railing; but let me tell 
thee, when thy Master found t’ opportunity to tell t’ Scribes 


A QUESTION OF DUTY. 


139 


and Pharisees what He thought they were, He didn’t lose it. 
I’m sorry I left Sykes to thee, now !” 

“ Nay, thou needn’t be. I gave him some varry plain Saxon. 
If ta had \yaited a minute, I was going to tell thee. Ben 
Holden isn’t a man to lose any opportunity. I hed my say, 
Jonathan. I hev a few words I keep for such occasions, and 
I let Sykes hev ’em.” 

“ Wasn’t he fair capp’d at t’ turn round ?” 

“ I don’t think he was. He said he knew he’d hev to go, 
iver since he saw owd Jonas Shuttleworth poking around here. 
He said Jonas Shuttleworth and t’ devil were t’ varry same 
thing.” 

“ My word ! It’s well Shuttleworth didn’t hear him.” 

“ I said, ‘ In that case, t’ devil himsen weren’t half as bad as 
some o’ his servants were.’ ‘Meaning me?’ asked Sykes, in a 
passion ; and I answered, ‘ Thou knows whose wages thou takes.’ 
Then Newby put thy seal on all and everything, and gave orders 
for t’ mill to stop at noon.” 

“ Well, what does ta look so down in t’ mouth for? One 
would think it was our mill that was to stop at noon, Ben, from 
t’ way thou takes it.” 

“ Nay, I don’t know. But I’ll tell thee one thing, Jonathan — 
revenge isn’t half such a sweet morsel as it is said to be. 
There’s many sins far more tempting, I should say.” 

“Thou knows little about it, then ; and a just retribution 
isn’t revenge, and thou oughtn’t to speak in that way, and take 
t’ varry sweetness out of it. There’s no sin in a good man re- 
joicing in t’ overthrow of t’ wicked ; but we’ll change t’ subject 
if it’s so unpleasant to thee. I see Sarah Benson’s loom is idle. 
Does ta know what’s matter now ?” 

“Joyce is sick again.” 

“ I think thou might hev dropped in and seen if ta could 
help them, anyway.” 

“ Mebbe thou hesn’t got all ta stock of human kindness there 
is in t’ world ! I did drop in, and I liev paid Sarah her full 
wage every Saturday since Steve’s trouble, whether she earned 


140 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


it or not. I thought if ta didn’t like it I could spare t’ few 
shillings mysen.” 

“ Thou knew right well I’d like it. But thou art as cross as 
two sticks, Ben, this morning. If ta doesn’t get married soon 
thou wilt spoil on my hands. I hev seen t’ day when this 
morning’s work would hev suited thee to a T.” 

Then Ben put his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, and said, “ It 
does suit me. I am as glad as can be.” And the two men 
looked at each other a minute in silence, and then parted with 
a smile full of assurance and content. It was only that they 
had found words too blundering a vehicle to express emotions 
so strong and complex. ABut where the tongue fails, the glance 
of the eye and the pressure of a hand says in a moment what 
many words only darken and confuse. 

That day Jonathan had a great deal to do, but he could not 
do it. “T’ work isn’t quite ready for me yet,” he said to Ben, 
and that was true enough. Aske was unable to consult with 
lawyers and business men about many things which could hard- 
ly be transferred or put into fresh working order without his 
assistance. Jonas Shuttleworth would also have to be seen 
again, and Jonathan felt that to gratitude he would be compelled 
to add both patience and prudence. It was a little trial to him. 
He had one of those impulsive, driving tempers that would 
rather climb the wall than wait for the opening of the gate; 
and his triumph would have been far sweeter to him if there 
had been no provoking preliminaries and none of the law’s delay. 

Still, he was a very happy man — “ and going to be happier,” 
he told himself — for in the midst of his business changes he 
could not help the contemplation that the road between Sarah 
and himself was clearing. In an unacknowledged way she had 
been present in all his hopes and plans, and he felt that he 
could not be content until he had seen her long enough to make 
her understand, and share the brighter prospects before them. 

There was a trustees’ meeting at the chapel that night. lie 
remembered it as he was eating his dinner, and as the nearest 
way to the chapel was by Steve’s cottage, he thought he would 


A QUESTION OF DUTY. 


141 


go. “Perhaps he might meet Sarah. She might be at the 
door. He might even feel it possible to call there. He had 
given Steve a kind of promise which inferred some oversight 
of Joyce and his children ; and if Joyce was sick, it would not 
look remarkable for him to call and ask after her.” He made 
these sort of excuses for a few minutes as he sat smoking after 
dinner; then suddenly the whole expression of his face changed. 
He put down his pipe with unusual decision, and as he walked 
rapidly up-stairs he said bluntly to himself, “ I’d be an honest 
man if I was thee, Jonathan Burley. Go and see Sarah Ben- 
son. Thou needs no apologies. She needs none. What is ta 
framing excuses thet are half lies for?” 

He put on his best broadcloth suit, and in all other respects 
dressed with unusual care. And it was not altogether vanity 
which made him look with complaisance on his reflection in 
the glass, and say, “ I’m a bit bald and a bit stout, and t’ last 
four years hes made me a bit gray, but I’m a handsome man, 
as men go, yet, I think.” Nor was the judgment a partial or 
flattering one. He was a handsome man ; simple, dignified, 
with a pleasant face, and a look of kindly shrewdness in the 
eyes ; a man quite worthy to win any good woman’s confidence 
and affection. 

He stopped at Steve’s cottage as he went to the meeting. 
He had intended to wait until it was over, but he found him- 
self unable to pass the door. Sarah turned her face towards 
him as he opened it, and at the sight of Jonathan she blushed 
crimson with pleasure. She sat at the fireside with the baby 
on her knee ; and the little girl whose royal name had caused 
such heart-burnings was spelling out a lesson beside her. Joyce 
was in the large chair, folded in a blanket. Her once pretty 
face was thin and faded, and she was in such a weak, hysterical 
condition that Jonathan’s first kind words made her begin to 
cry. 

“ Nay, nay, woman,” he said, soothingly, “ t’ time for tears 
is mainly oover now. I saw Aske last night, and we talked 
about t’ men that tried to murder him, and he said ‘he could 


142 


BETWEEN" TWO LOVES. 


pick ’em out among a thousand anywhere.’ And when I told 
him thy Steve ^ was in prison he was varry sorry. He said, 

‘ Steve hed nowt to do wi’ t’ robbery.’ Now, then, don’t thee 
cry any more.” 

“ Master, thank thee for coming wi’ such good news !” Sarah 
answered, her face shining with hope. “ Poor Joyce, she lies 
been ill for weeks ! She’s hed a deal to cry for, and she’s weak 
as can be.” 

“I’m broken-hearted! I’m dying! There niver was a 
woman used as Steve used me. Oh, deary me ! Oh, deary 
me ! Oh ! oh ! oh !” 

She was sobbing and moaning with a pitiful hysteria, and 
Sarah, still holding the babe to her breast, stood up to soothe 
her ; but perceiving the work was going to be difficult, she 
turned to Jonathan and said, “ Master, thou hed better go. 
She’s worn out, and I’ll hev to get her to bed.” 

“ Thou art worn out too, my lass !” His eyes filled with 
tears as he stood looking at her. “ I hev something good to 
tell thee, though. Oh, Sarah ! won’t ta give me half an hour 
as I come from t’ chapel ?” 

“ Yes, I will that.” 

Under the circumstances, there was no opportunity for more 
words. Joyce’s crying had awakened the child, and it was 
also crying ; and Jonathan readily perceived that his presence 
was not in any way helpful to Sarah. But his heart was full 
of pity for both women — for the weak, distracted wife, wailing 
and moaning her life away ; and for the brave, weary woman 
carrying a burden far too great for her strength. It was char- 
acteristic of Jonathan, however, that as soon as he entered the 
vestry he put his own thoughts quite away from his heart, and 
entered with all his old interest into the financial affairs of the 
circuit. 

“ Thou art quite like thysen, Burley, to-night,” said an old 
friend, looking at him with a cheerful astonishment; and Jon- 
athan answered, “ The Lord hes turned again my captivity, 
Brother Latham ; and the Lord’s name be praised !” 


A QUESTION OF DUTY. 


143 


It was a little trial for Jonathan that the brethren, rejoicing 
in his happiness, by a kind of friendly concert, walked part of 
the way home with him. At first he thought he had better 
not keep his engagement with Sarah. These men might won- 
der and talk, and he could not explain things, and so on, etc. 
But when they reached Steve’s cottage he was ashamed that he 
could have been, even for a moment, such a coward. He stood 
still, and said, “Now, then, I’ll bid you all ‘good-night.’ Here’s 
Steve Benson’s cottage, and I hev got a word or two to say 
there.” 

The little house-place was now quiet. Joyce and the chil- 
dren were asleep, and Sarah was sitting by the table mending 
some of their clothing. Jonathan sat down by her side. He 
took the work out of her hands, and then held them in his 
own. Such dear hands ! Hands so ready to help ! So gentle 
with the sick and the children ! So busy in every unselfish 
work ! “ Oh, Sarah !” he said, and his voice was low and 

broken with emotion — “ oh, my dear lass, t’ days of our trou- 
ble are oover. Aske and me have made up friends. He hes 
given up t’ lawsuit, and sent Sykes about his business ; and he 
is going to make oover t’ new mill to me. What does ta think 
of that ?” 

As he spoke he bent towards her, and her face was lifted to 
him. He saw how the news changed it, how the wan cheeks 
grew rosy and the sad eyes bright, and how the patient mouth 
parted with a happy smile. And before she could speak, he 
had bent still lower, and kissed the words off her lips. 

“ Nay, nay,” he added, “ don’t thee be a bit vexed at me. I 
couldn’t help it, my dearie; and I hev waited varry patient, 
Sarah ; now, then, how soon will ta marry me ?” 

“ Dear master, how can I leave these three little childer — 
nay, then, there are four o’ them, for Joyce is just as fit for 
nothing? Thou must wait until t’ right time comes.” 

“ If ta knew, Sarah, how it pains me to see thy white, half- 
clemmed face ! How can I be happy, and thou so miser- 
able?” 


144 


BETWEEN TWO LOAVES. 


“ Nay-a, not miserable ; nobody is that wlio is doing the 
thing they ought to do.” 

“ But Steve will get off. There isn’t a doubt o’ that. Squire 
Aske was as sorry as could be when he heard of Steve being in 
prison.” 

“ I wonder how Squire Aske knew our Steve ?” 

“ He told me how. He said one day he was coming through 
Denham Woods, and he met Steve, and t’ lad showed him an 
orchid he lied just found and t’ squire gave Steve a guinea 
for it. I don’t know what an orchid is, my lass, but it’s nowt 
wrong, I’m sure ; happen, it’s a bird o’ some kind.” 

“ Nay, it’s a flower. I remember Steve telling me about it ; 
he said it was like a spider; a varry curious flower it must be.” 

“Then Aske got into a talk with Steve, and he told Steve he 
would like him to get t’ nests and t’ eggs of all the kinds of 
birds that iver he could find ; for it seems Aske has a fancy to 
mak’ a collection of them. He offered t’ lad ten shillings for 
ivery nest with t’ eggs in it, and more if t’ nest was an uncom- 
mon kind. But Steve wouldn’t tak’ t’ offer, not he ! lie said 
‘ He would count himsen no better than a thief and a murder- 
er if he took t’ nest of any brooding bird, and that he’d far 
rather hev t’ good-will of t’ robins and finches than of the big- 
gest man in t’ county.’ ” 

Sarah smiled, and answered, with a tone of decided ap- 
proval, “That was just like Steve. Poor, kind-hearted lad!” 

“Ay, t’ squire smiled when he told me; and he said it 
would be a varry unlikely thing for a man like Steve to turn 
out a blood-thirsty, thieving blackguard.” 

“ He is so good, and he is so bad, master, I’m fair puzzled 
with him.” 

“ He has promised me to do better, and I have promised him 
no one should take his loom from him. And, Sarah, it’s not 
unlikely that t’ prison hes taught him that he can manage to 
live without tramping up aud down from one week end to an- 
other. And get a lesson sur e-ly, about ‘ taking up ’ with ivery- 
body that speaks pleasant to him. So, then, when Steve is 


A QUESTION OF DUTY. 145 

settled to work again, what is there to hinder? Be my wife, 
and come to thy home.” 

“ I’ll say one thing. Just as soon as Steve is doing well, I’ll 
count the promise I made my mother fulfilled. But she set 
me a charge and I hev to keep it. I couldn’t be happy, not 
even with thee, if I ran away from my duty.” 

“ It’s a varry hard one, Sarah.” 

“ Thou’s wrong there. Love makes hard things easy, and I 
love my mother yet, and I love Steve dearly ! Hev a bit more 
patience. I won’t hev my happiness till I can ask God’s bless- 
ing on it. I must wait for t’ right time; and I must be sure 
it is t’ right time.” 

“ Then, Sarah, I’ll wait as patient as iver I can, till thou art sure. 
But oh, lass, how I love thee! Thou art dear as my own life to me!” 

She blushed with pleasure, and voluntarily put her hand in 
his. “ In a little while,” she said. “ T’ shadows are beginning 
to brighten, and now thou wilt see how fast t’ daylight will 
come. When t’ right hour strikes, thee and me will both 
know it, and I’ll be thy wife gladly, and I’ll try to make ivery 
hour of thy life happy.” 

Jonathan was far too full of joy to speak for a few minutes, 
and when he did find words they were of that practical kind 
which would probably shock a young lover, who imagines that 
love has no element but one of poetry and romance. “Sarah,” 
he said, “ if ta was by thy sen, cr if it was for thy sen, I’d niver 
dare to offer thee a halfpenny, though all I have is for thee. 
But for that poor weakly creature and her childer thou must 
let me do something till Steve is able to work again.” 

“ Ben Holden lies brought my wage.” 

“Thy wage isn’t enough. It isn’t half enough. It is for 
them, not thee. Take it, lass, and get Joyce some strengthen- 
ing food, and t’ childer some shoes and clothes. As for Steve’s 
defence, he won’t need much defending, but I hev spoken to 
Newby. He’ll say all for t’ poor lad that is necessary ; and so, 
thou needn’t hev a care about t’ trial. It will clear Steve when- 
iver it is.” 

10 


146 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


Jonathan’s hopeful assertions proved in the outcome to be 
true ones also. When Squire Aske was carried into the court 
on the day of the trial, he positively asserted that only two 
men attacked him. He said he had noticed these two as they 
climbed the wall ; he described their dress, and without hesita- 
tion selected the guilty men. And in Steve Benson’s behalf he 
spoke so warmly that his full and honorable acquittal was the 
immediate result of the legal investigation. 

But there was a social tribunal which Steve could not so easi- 
ly satisfy. He returned home with a determination to do his 
duty ; to be industrious at his loom and affectionate to his fam- 
ily. On the morning when he went back to the mill, Sarah 
walked by his side, and Jonathan took care, as soon as all the 
hands were at work, to stop at Steve’s loom, and to talk to him 
with marked interest and kindness concerning the “piece” he 
was setting up. Steve Benson, however, had not many friends 
among his own class. A drunken, noisy scamp who beat his 
wife and fought the constables they could have understood and 
felt some sympathy for; but a man like Steve, who spent days 
hunting a queer flower, or rambling on the sea-sands after 
weeds and shells, and who filled his pockets like a school-boy 
with “trash,” was, in their opinion, a man who was either silly 
or wicked, and very likely a little of both. 

Besides, as Jim Hardcastle said, “ If Steve Benson lied hed 
a bit o’ human natur’ in him, he’d hev given his mates an even- 
ing at t’ public-house, and told ’em all as he’d gone through, 
and stood a quart apiece for ’em ; for as iverybody knew, both 
t’ squire and t’ master lied put their hands in their pockets for 
him.” 

So Steve was made to feel from the first hour of his return 
that he was not “ one of them.” A score of times a day this 
knowledge was forced upon him. Some of the coarser men 
and women had a gibe ever ready ; others shifted away from 
his presence in silence, or else made that presence so passively 
unpleasant that Steve quickly shifted away from it. The trial 
was borne bravely for a few days, for he hoped to live it down. 


A QUESTION OF DUTY. 


147 


But petty injustices and mean slights are not of that class of 
evils; on the contrary, they have all the. despicable persistence 
of a fly ; and, however often pushed away, return again and 
again to the contemptible attack. 

Steve was almost appalled by such an invincible dislike. He 
knew how impossible such persecution would have been to him- 
self, and, therefore, measuring it by this personal standard, it 
assumed proportions that he felt to be hopelessly beyond his 
power to surmount. Every day he grew more and more mis- 
erable and apathetic. He shrunk from this adverse human 
contact, and yet felt obliged to meet it. It was an actual mar- 
tyrdom to the sensitive man, and its effect upon Sarah was 
equally painful and distressing. Before a month had passed 
she felt that the ordeal was too cruel, and that something must 
be done to make it unnecessary, for Steve was really in a great- 
er danger than ever he had been before — the danger of a hope- 
less, subjugated heart. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

SHADOWS GROWING BRIGHTER. 

“No life is waste in the Great Worker’s hands.” 

“ The thought of her came like a small bird winging the still, blue air.” 

“ I went down into the garden to see whether the pomegranates budded.” 
— Song of Solomon , vi. 11. 

It was a painful thing to do, but a woman’s love, if it be 
true love, never fails. Sarah went again to Jonathan. It was 
easy to make him understand how Steve stood in his ovvrr little 
world. Jonathan knew the men and women that composed it ; 
knew their virtues and their faults, and he perceived that Steve 
had become an outcast from it. To tell the truth, he had not 
much hope of Steve ; but he could not resist Sarah’s anxious 
face, and the tears in her sorrowful eyes. 

“ Let him hev a fair chance, master, to put his good resolu- 
tions into practice,” she pleaded; and after some debate Amer- 
ica was chosen as the place for a fair chance. America was a 
boundless possibility. Very little else was known about it, 
even by Jonathan. But Steve was charmed. There was the 
voyage, and then the vast unknown beyond the voyage; surely, 
at least, there were limitless opportunities for something good 
to turn up. lie was gay with hope and full of promises, and 
Sarah believed in them, although the thoughtless candidate for 
fortune had not one definite plan as to how he was to redeem 
them. 

He intended going to Canada, but he made some mistake in 
Liverpool, and bought a ticket for New York. But how often 
some wiser power takes in hand at last the life we have rough- 
hewn on every side, and shapes it to its proper end. Half-way 


SHADOWS GROWING BRIGHTER. 


149 


across the Atlantic the key to Steve Benson’s character was 
found. Either because a sailing-vessel was more economical, or 
because he wanted to prolong the voyage, Steve had selected a 
ship of a famous merchant line. For eight days they were 
driven before a series of storms, and when all hope appeared ta 
be over, and the crew refused any longer to obey orders, Steve 
went naturally to his right place. 

He was the captain’s main reliance. Things that appeared 
impossible for a landsman to do he did easily, by some natural 
gift or instinct. His spirits and courage rose with the storm, 
rose above it, and the man who had been a coward among 
wheels and bands and pulleys knew only an exultant joy in 
his conflict with the winds and waves. When almost in ex- 
tremity they met a steamer which took them into port; but 
the first step on the right road had been taken by Steve Ben- 
son, for, ere they landed the captain said to him, 

“ What is your trade, young man ?” 

“ I am a weaver, sir.” 

“ And your father 

“ A weaver also ; but my grandfather sailed forty years in 
the Whitby whaling ships — ” 

“I thought so! You are a born sailor. Nature made you 
to sail a ship, and your father tethered you to a loom. That’s 
the way people steer on wrong tacks, and then wonder they 
run upon reefs and sand-bars. Will you leave the loom and 
take the helm with me?” 

“ I’ll do so gladly, captain.” 

This was the beginning of a new life to Steve. It was almost 
as if in that stormy passage he had been born again. He threw 
the past and all its dreamy discontent behind him. He never 
wanted in this new work to be idle. He put into it his whole 
soul, and duty was delight. The captain watched him with 
pleasure and astonishment, and wondered at the marvellous 
transition. For it was not only in his mental aptitudes that 
the born sailor was manifest; as soon as Steve put on the blue 
flannel of the seaman he looked as if he was in his natural 


150 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


clothes. He kicked his corduroys over the side of the vessel, 
and buried his mill memories with them fathoms deep in the 
tossing ocean. 

It must be acknowledged that at first Jonathan thought little 
of the enthusiastic hopes of Sarah for her brother in his new 
life. “ It’s this and it’s that,” he muttered, “ and the newest 
thing is the best thing ; but he’ll never be worth the shoe-leath- 
er he’ll wear out.” And it was not unreasonable that he should 
feel hopeless of Steve, and also a little hard towards him. For 
so many years he had stood between Sarah and himself; and 
though he could not blame Sarah for her sisterly devotion, he 
did blame Steve for requiring it. He was very well pleased 
when the American proposal was made. He had often thought 
of it, but he felt that it would be impolitic for him to be the 
one to propose the lad’s exile. He might be accused of selfish 
motives, and if Steve were unsuccessful he was sure that Sarah 
would only cling the closer to him. 

Still, it made him happy to see her at her loom with such a 
cheerful face ; and as the weeks went by, and it grew brighter 
and brighter, he began to look into the eyes he loved with that 
kopeful lift of the eyelids which asked her as plainly as words 
could have done, “ When ?” And though he was so busy that 
he hardly took time for sleep, he was always conscious of a joy 
far below the restless tides of daily labor and daily care. 

After the wonderful reconciliation between Aske and himself 
he went at once to see his uncle. Jonas Shuttleworth had 
been shrewd enough to anticipate the. effect of that Christmas- 
eve upon his nephew’s business. He was not astonished when 
he heard there would be no lawsuit, and yet, in spite of a sen- 
sible satisfaction, he was a bit disappointed. 

“I hope I am Christian enough to be glad thou hes made it 
up with thy son-in-law,” he said to Jonathan ; “ but, my word ! 
it was as nice a case as iver I could wish to see ! I hed t’ de- 
fence all thought out, and I hed got things in my mind up to 
t’ tune of ten thousand pounds damages. But if thou art sat- 
isfied, why then I ought to be, I’m sure. Now then, what 


SHADOWS GROWING BRIGHTER. 


151 


will ta do with both mills ? They’ll be a bit of a charge to 
thee.” 

“ I’ll tell thee. Eleanor lies offered me t’ loan of her mar- 
riage-portion, and that will make Burley mill run smooth until 
it runs itself clear.” 

“ Why-a ! That was good in t’ lass ! But what will Aske 
say to it?” 

“ He put Eleanor up to it, I hev no doubt ; for Eleanor never 
lied a plan about money, if it wasn’t for t’ spending of it. But 
she was glad of the thought, and they were both as nice as niver 
was about it.” 

“ He can’t be a bad chap — Aske.” 

“ He’s a varry good one. He’s a good hater, and a good 
lover; and men of that kind suit me. You know where you 
hev them. Squire Bashpoole always lifted his hat, and spoke 
politely in t’ worst o’ t’ ill-will; but I knew he hated me, and 
I thought a deal worse of him for his civility. He’d hev been 
more of a man if he lied kept his beaver on, and passed me 
without a word.” 

“ Now, then, about t’ other mill ?” 

“ Ay, suppose thou runs it ?” 

“ I know nowt o’ running mills.” 

“ Money knows iverything.” 

“ Varry true. I’ll tell thee what : I’ll find t’ money, and thou 
put Ben Holden in as manager. It shall be Burley & Co., and 
I’ll be t’ ‘ Co.’ ” 

“ Ben lies been my right hand for many a year.” 

“Then it’s time thou was thy own right hand. Run thy mill 
as well as iver thou can, and Ben and I will ‘ best thee,’ I lievn’t 
a doubt.” 

“ I shouldn’t wonder.” 

But it was finally settled thus, and Ben was highly delighted 
at the proposal. Still, there were necessarily many irritating 
delays, especially as Aske did not recover as rapidly and thor- 
oughly as had been hoped. And machinery was to examine, 
and books to go over, and stock to take, and the lock to re- 


15'2 


BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 


move, and bills to call in and to satisfy, and a hundred things 
to attend to, which kept not only Jonathan but the “ Co.” as 
busy as possible. 

In the early summer Squire Bashpoole and his family returned 
from Italy. Jonathan was made aware of this fact by meeting 
the squire one morning going to Aske as he was returning 
from an early call upon his son-in-law. At this meeting Bash- 
poole forgot the courtesy Burley had complained of. On the 
contrary, he accosted him with a blunt anger, whose spirit was 
unmistakably rude. 

“Jonathan Burley,” he said, “let me tell you I think it a 
great misfortune that my nephew ever had anything whatever 
to do with you or- your family. You are a low set, sir — low, 
both in your liking and your revenge. That is my mind about 
you !” 

“Well, I didn’t ask thee for thy mind,” answered Burley, 
“and I don’t care a jot for it now thou lies given it to me. 
But I’d a deal rather know it, and hev it, than I’d hcv thy civil 
words, which niver did mean aught. In t’ future, though, don’t 
thee speak to me at all. I want nowt of thee, not even thy 
mind. Morning, sir.” 

He could not make up his mind to say “good” morning. 
“I don’t see,” he muttered, “why I should lie for him, and I 
don’t wish him a good-morning and he flicked his whip an- 
grily as he drove with unusual rapidity to the mill. He found 
Jonas Shuttleworth already there, and going over his own mail 
with great apparent satisfaction. As Jonathan entered he lifted 
a letter, and shook it with a gentle, triumphant motion. 

“It’s from Squire Bashpoole,” he said; and then he chuckled 
to himself as he looked at his nephew. 

“ Why-a ! I hev just hed a few words with him. I told thee 
his civility was all shoddy. He at me this morning like a bully, 
and he gave me some varry uncivil words indeed.” 

“ What did he say ?” 

“ Why, he said my family was a low set.” 

“Did he? Niver mind, Jonathan. IIe’11 hev to pay heavy 


Shadows growing brighter. 


153 


for ivery ugly word. If lie likes to buy ’em at our price nei- 
ther thee nor me need grumble.” 

“ What is he writing to thee about?” 

Shuttleworth smiled queerly as he answered, “Why, it’s about 
iny soap factory. T’ boiling-vats were put in on Saturday, and 
he was mad. He got into his fine carriage and came down on 
me, horses and livery and all. His big footman rapped with 
his silver-headed stick at my door as if he’d come to tell me 
Queen Victoria was waiting outside. I hed seen him coming, 
for I hed been expecting t’ visit; but I sat still at my fireside, 
and when t’ man knocked I shouted to him to ‘Walk in.’ He 
didn’t do it, though, till he got tired o’ knocking, and then he. 
says, ‘ Squire Bashpoole wants to see you, sir.’ ‘ I’ve no objec- 
tions,’ says I; ‘tell him to come in.’ ‘Sir?’ says he. ‘Tell 
him to come here,’ I answered, and by t’ way I spoke he knew 
I meant something. So t’ squire comes marching in as if he 
lied looked at my property, and liked it and meant to buy it ; 
and I said, ‘Well, squire, thou can sit down if ta likes.’ 

“ ‘ I won’t sit down, Mr. Shuttleworth ; and what are you 
building opposite my park?’ he asked. 

“ ‘ Why, ta sees,’ 1 told him, ‘ there’s a sight o’ wool mills 
round here, and I’m building a soap factory ; it’s sure to pay.’ 

“ ‘ Pay !’ he bellowed. ‘ It’s an outrage ! It’s a nuisance ! 
It ruins my property ! It’s close upon my park walls!’ 

“ ‘ Ay,’ l said, ‘ thy park walls lies long been an outrage and 
a nuisance. My tenants don’t like looking at a brick wall 
spring, summer, and winter.’ 

“ Then he went on like a Turk and Tartar, and I smoked my 
pipe and looked in t’ fire as comfortable and pleasant as could 
be; and I niver answered him a word until he said he’d ‘find 
Jaw enough in England to punish me.’ Then I told him ‘there 
would happen be as much law for me as for him.’ ‘ It’s a mon- 
strous injustice!’ cried he; and I laughed, and answered that 
‘ law and justice weren’t quite t’ same thing, but that law was 
quite good enough for two men like him and me. And,’ I add- 
ed, ‘there’s a bit o’ land of mine left beyond t’ soap factory, 


154 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


and I could dig some tanning vats in it, and build some skin- 
drying sheds; and though it’s a dirty business, I don’t mind 
where gold comes from if it only comes to my purse, not I.’ 
And then he went fuming out, and swore himsen into his car- 
riage; and, to tell t’ honest truth, Jonathan, I don’t blame him. 
I’d hev done about t’ same, thing mysen.” 

Jonathan listened with a grave face. “ I’m sorry, uncle. I 
don’t mind Squire Bashpoole, nor what he says to me nor of 
me; and I hope you won’t spend your money and annoy your- 
self in such a cause. I bear no ill-will to Squire Bashpoole.” 

“ I do. And it isn’t thy -quarrel I’m fighting with him. He 
knows what he is being punished for ; though the wrong is as 
old as thou art. When I gave him a look t’ other day, he knew 
that look meant ‘ Mary Sorley ,’ and not Jonathan Burley. I 
hev given him a good lot of whippings on that old score, and 
mebbe I wouldn’t hev brought it up again but for t’ way he lies 
talked about my grandniece, Mistress Aske. Thou let him and 
me alone. There’s nobody knows t’ ins and t’ outs of our quar- 
rel but oursens. What was thou at Aske’s so early for to-day ?” 

“ Why, Aske is varry badly. He doesn’t get well ; and Elea- 
nor sent for me last night. T’ doctors think he ought to go to 
London or Paris, and see some great men — I’ve forgotten t’ 
names — and Eleanor wanted me to persuade him to take t’ ad- 
vice given him. He looks varry thin and white, and he suffers 
a deal. But it is t’ queerest thing how he hes taken to me ; 
not but it is just as queer to feel how I hev taken to him. I 
felt fit to cry this morning to see him so bad off.” 

‘‘Jonathan, I’ll take it kind of thee if ta will go with t’ poor 
young man and thy daughter. Thou is needing a rest far more 
than thou thinks for. Thou hes a fever most of t’ time ; and 
thou art as worritty as a woman. Ben and I can take care of 
iverything; and if ta will forget t’ mills for a few weeks, and 
give thysen up to spending money, and larking like a boy, thou 
wilt add twenty years to thy life.” 

And probably there was in Jonathan’s consciousness a con- 
viction of the necessity for some such relief ; for after a slight 


SHADOWS GROWING BRIGHTER. 


155 


opposition he gave in to his uncle’s proposal, almost gladly ; es- 
pecially when he saw how pleased Eleanor was and felt the 
grateful clasp of Aske’s thin hand. 

This event occurred about the end of July ; a little more 
than two months after Steve’s departure for America. Things 
had become much better in his cottage. Joyce was well, and 
growing almost pretty again, in the brighter prospects before 
her. Steve wrote her beautiful letters. He sent her money ; 
he told her he was making a little home for her in New York, 
and that very soon it would be ready. And Joyce took kindly 
to the idea. She had been so poor and wretched that she did 
not feel as if she ever could hold up her head again among her 
own people; and her imagination had also been filled with 
Steve’s account of the bright, breezy city of the New World, 
and its freer, broader life, and its wonderful school advantages 
for the children. So that Sarah’s hopefully prophetic words 
to her lover — “ the shadows have begun to brighten ” — seemed 
to be coming more and more true with every passing week. 

As for Sarah, her cheerful face and light step had told Jona- 
than so much, but he felt that he could not go abroad with 
Aske until he had had some confidential intercourse with her. 
On the last day that he purposed being at the mills, before leav- 
ing, he stopped at her loom. Jonas Shuttleworth was with him, 
but he had lingered at a loom lower down, and in the few mo- 
ments’ interval Jonathan bent over her work, and said, “I am 
going away, my lass, for three months, happen for more. I 
must see thee first. Where will ta be at nine o’clock to-night ?” 

“I’ll be at the stile to Barton Woods.” 

“ I’ll be there, too — wet or fine.” 

Then Jonas joined him. Both men stood and watched Sa- 
rah’s work for a few minutes, and then passed on. But all day 
Jonathan had the wonderful sense of having an appointment 
with Sarah. It made him feel like a young man. He could 
scarcely eat his dinner; and Jonas noticed his want of appetite 
as a new and an ominous symptom of his need of rest and rec- 
reation. 


156 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ I’ll tell thee what, nephew, thou lies eat nothing at all, and 
when a man quarrels with his bread and meat, there’s something 
varry far wrong with him. Thou said thou was going out to- 
night ; don’t thee do it ; a man that doesn’t eat his victuals isn’t 
fit to put his head out in t’ night air.” 

But Jonathan said he had a friend to see, and the old man 
made no further opposition to his night walk. He went nerv- 
ously up-stairs, and dressed himself, and then slowly took his 
way through the sweet-scented park, full of the perfume of 
bleaching grass and of a thousand wild flowers. There was no 
moon, but there was an exquisite gloaming, and myriads of 
bright shining stars ; and the whole influence of the night was 
singularly sweet and tender. 

Lovers outrun the clock, if they be true lovers, and Jonathan 
was at the tryst before nine. But he sat down at the stile, and 
smoked, and thought, and was very, very happy. Just before 
nine he arose, and looked up and down the road. He could 
see either way for half a mile. Sarah was not visible. Then 
she was coming through the wood, and with a still, sweet thrill 
of expectation he went to meet her. In a few moments she 
appeared, and oh, how fair and sweet she looked in the dim 
path with the green, arching trees above her ! 

He took her hands and clasped them in his own. “ My own 
dear wife ! Thank thee for coming !” He drew 7 her firmly to 
his side, and he almost whispered the words over again, because 
it seemed far sweeter to say them in a voice so low that it com- 
pelled him to bend down to her dear face in order to make 
himself understood. And then their feet were upon enchanted 
ground, and knew a joy more sweet and pure than any hearts 
can comprehend, save those that have been tried by sorrow and 
strengthened by self-abnegation. It was no green harvest of 
unripe love, hastily gathered by impatient youth before the ears 
are full and golden. In Barton Wood,. Sarah and Jonathan had 
one hour of sweetest confidence, in which the future was dis- 
cussed in all the glowing hopes of purest and truest love. 

When it was time to part they came to the open road, and 


SHADOWS GROWING BRIGHTER. 


157 


Jonathan looked at his love with a fixed and tender gaze. He 
wanted to firmly impress upon his mental vision the picture of 
the beautiful woman he so dearly loved. She had only a lilac 
print dress on, with a white broidered kerchief about her neck ; 
but oh, how sweet and womanly she looked ! And oh, what 
wells of truth and affection were the handsome gray eyes she 
lifted to Jonathan’s face ! 

“ We must part here, dear Jonathan,” she said, softly. 

“ Nay, uot we. I’ll see thee safe home,” and she had not 
the heart to say him nay. So, walking happily side by side 
through the little village, they said their last hopeful words to 
each other. At the cottage gate he kissed her and blessed her, 
and left her with eyes full of tender tears. And she stood and 
watched him to the street corner, where he turned and waved 
his hand in a final adieu. Still she stood. The air was so warm 
and balmy, and the stars so bright, and she was so happy. And 
when the thoughts are thoughts of love, time goes so swiftly to 
their drifting. Sarah had been dreaming half an hour at the 
little gate when she heard a footstep. “ That is Ben Holden’s 
step, I’ll warrant,” she thought, and in a moment Ben came 
round the corner. 

“ Thou art late out, Sarah,” he said, with a queer smile. 

“ So art thou, Ben. Hes ta been a-courting?” 

“Thou knows better than that. I’m up to no such foolish- 
ness! I was at t Odd Fellows’ meeting to-night. Does ta 
know t’ master is going away ?” 

“ Ay, I know it. Aske and him are varry friendly after all 
that hes come and gone.” 

“ Aske and Burley are thick as thack, and as for Mistress 
Aske, she rules ’em both. She hes sense enough now to call 
her orders ‘ wishes,’ that’s about all t’ difference, lass. It caps 
me ! Men-folk are that easy fooled I often wonder women can 
look in their faces without laughing at ’em.” 

And Sarah laughed softly in Ben’s face and turned happily 
away. 


CHAPTER XV. 
ben holden’s marriage. 

“All love is sweet, 

Given or returned. Common as light is love, 

And its familiar voice wearies not ever. 
****** 

They who inspire it most are fortunate 
As I am now ; but those who feel it most 
Are happier still.” — Shelley. 

One beautiful morning in August Ben stood at the big door 
of the new mill. He was its manager, and he felt to the 
utmost the importance of his position. Every loom was at 
work in the building, which was a very handsome stone struct- 
ure, white inside as lime could make it, and as airy as a bird- 
cage. The multitude of clicking, clacking sounds were the 
sweetest music to him ; and he was seriously debating with 
himself as to the necessity of working “ over-hours ” in order 
to fill requisitions in fair time. Never had Ben felt so little 
like “ bothering with women-folks ” as that very moment, and 
perhaps it was for this reason Cupid sent little Nelly Lew- 
thwaite Ben’s way. Nelly was a slip of a lass, not^ seventeen 
years old, and though Ben had a consciousness that some such 
human being was crossing the yard, he was looking far beyond 
her, until she stood at his side, and, dropping a courtesy, said, 
“ Master Holden, I’d like to work for thee.” 

Ben looked down at her, and his stern face softened all over. 
She had the wonderful Lancashire eyes, with bands of rippling 
brown hair above them, and a small mouth, bow-shaped and 
rosy. 

“ Why, then, thou shall work for me,” he answered, kindly. 
“ Where does ta come from ? Thou art none of our folk.” 



ben iiolden’s marriage. 


159 


“ I come from Manchester way.” 

“Ay, for sure. Are thy folk with thee?” 

“ I have none, master. Father and mother died last year 
with t’ fever — thou would hear how bad it was ?” 

And she looked sadly down at her black dress, and touched 
a bit of crape at her throat. 

“ lies ta no brothers and sisters ?” 

“ I lied ; but they got married, and wedding changed ’em 
some way. They couldn’t be bothered wi’ me after it.” 

“That’s like enough. Where is ta staying?” 

“I’ve got a nice place to stay. I’m with Sybil Johnson. 
She used to work with my mother.” 

“ Sybil is a good woman. See thou bides with her, and 
does what she tells thee to do, then thou won’t go far out of 
thy way. What can ta do in a mill ?” 

“ I can either spin or weave.” 

“ I’ll give thee a loom to-morrow morning.” 

“ Why, thank thee, master. Sybil said thou was a kind 
man. I’m glad I came to thee.” 

Then Nelly, with a smile, went away, and Ben Holden 
bothered his head about her more than enough. Her childish, 
confiding manner had touched the spring of Ben’s heart, and* 
set the door wide open for her. 

All day her innocent face and bright eyes were constantly 
before him ; and he felt as if the pretty, girlish form was at 
his side as he went up and down the mill. Then he worried 
himself for not having set her to work at once. She might be 
tempted to go to some other mill, and find a master who would 
not be as just and kind to her as he intended to be. 

“ A poor little orphan lass among strangers,” he kept saying 
to himself. “A poor little lass, and nobody to say a kind 
word to her.” And though this consideration for a pretty girl 
was such an unusual, such an absolutely new thing to Ben, he 
had not a suspicion of what had really happened to him. 

In the morning he watched anxiously for Nelly, and was 
pleased to see her among the first arrivals, He took fier him- 


160 


BETWEEN TWO LOYES. 


self to her loom. It made him happy to find the bonny 
childish form mounting the steps at his side. He felt a con- 
stant temptation to cast his eyes down at the eyes lifted to 
him. And such little bits of hands as Nelly had ! Ben 
touched them almost pitifully. “ Only to think of them hev- 
ing to work for a living! Poor little lass! No friends to 
care for her ! Poor lass ! poor lass !” 

All day such reflections ran through his mind, and towards 
afternoon he went to Sarah and told her about Nelly. “ She’s 
nobbut an orphan child among strangers, Sarah, and I look to 
thee to see after her a bit,” he said. “ There’s so many ways, 
thou knows, for a little one to be led out of t’ right road.” 

He was pleased to see that Sarah had found the “ little 
one” before leaving the mill ; for he saw them go out of the 
gates together, and he was disappointed Nelly did not look his 
way. Yet he knew that was a thing he had no right to ex- 
pect, and one which he would not have expected from any 
other hand. 

However, Sybil Johnson was a woman whom he knew well ; 
for, in spite of her poverty, she was a somewhat important person 
in the chapel, since it was generally Sybil who nursed the sick 
of the congregation, and who performed the last offices for the 
dead. But when Ben remembered this fact it troubled him. 
Necessarily, Sybil had to be much from her own home, and 
then Nelly would be left alone. A sudden fear made him 
heart-sick. She was such a pretty, gentle little lamb, and there 
were so many wolves about in the shape of handsome mill 
lads. He honestly felt as if it was his particular duty not 
only to warn Sybil of this danger, but also to take some 
charge in the matter himself. 

It was not long before he found an opportunity, and he 
called at Sybil’s cottage. It was a Saturday evening — a lovely, 
warm August evening, with a full moon in the clear blue sky. 
Sybil was ironing by the fading daylight, and Nelly was sitting 
beside her, trimming her bonnet with a new ribbon. Ben had 
come to tell Sybil of a lad who had got hurt, and wanted her care 


ben iiolden’s marriage. 


161 


a bit; and as Sybil would be away for a couple of hours, Ben 
asked Nelly to take a walk with him. He had put on a hand- 
some suit, and he was not at all a bad-looking fellow, tall and 
well-made, with a large, pleasant face, a little pock-marked. 
Nelly was glad of the walk, and she made herself so charming 
that before they parted Ben had sought and obtained permis- 
sion to call for heV on his way to chapel the next evening. 

“A poor little orphan lass.” He was never done making 
this apology to himself ; and taking it as an excuse for going 
every other night to see if Nelly was comfortable ; for going 
with her to chapel on Sundays, for fear she might neglect her 
duty; for seeing that she went walking on the moor frequently, 
lest the hot air in the mills should make the roses in her cheeks 
fade away ; for going with her to Morecarnbe sands on half- 
holidays, lest she might go there in company not so good for 
her as his own. He was completely captive before he even 
suspected that he was on dangerous ground; and never was 
there a man so foolishly, so completely, so thoroughly in love 
as Ben Holden. 

Now there was a pretty house near by the new mill. Aske 
had built it for Sykes, and it was now owned by Jonathan. As 
soon as Ben had a revelation touching the condition of mat- 
ters between his heart and Nelly Lcwthwaite, he wrote to Jona- 
than about this house. “ I want to buy it,” he said ; “ it is 
near the mill, and handy to live in ; and I have got a notion in 
my head to furnish and have a house of my own, if thou will 
sell it.” 

The proposition seemed a very natural one to Jonathan. He 
reflected that Ben had now a very responsible and important 
position ; that he was far from being poor ; and that a man 
who is not a householder is very like a nobody, no matter how 
rich he is. The sum Ben offered for the house was a fair one; 
not too much, not too little; and Jonathan was glad to be 
able to please so old and dear a friend. 

“Thou can have the house and welcome,” he wrote, “at thy 
own price; and I am glad above everything that thou art 
11 


162 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


thinking of a home of thy own. Married or not married, home 
is a full cup. I wish thou would get thee a wife, Ben ; there 
are a lot of women good enough, if thou could only think so; 
but I am feared thou will never be wise enough for that.” And 
Ben laughed grimly when he thought how astonished Jona- 
than would be. 

As soon as the house was his own, he went into Leeds and 
had a consultation with a firm whose business it was to know 
just what things were necessary and pretty for such a home. 
He had sense enough to leave it entirely to them; and as the 
principle between Ben and all tradesmen was ready cash, and 
full value for it, the furnishing was perfectly and suitably done. 

And perhaps he had never had happier hours than those 
which he first spent in his own home. The neatly - served 
meals in his own parlor, the smoke by his own fireside, the 
rest in his own handsome bedroom, were a new revelation of 
solid comfort to him. Besides, there was upon the parlor 
hearth-rug a pretty American rocking-chair, with a cushion of 
blue damask, and bows and trimmings of blue satin ribbon on 
it ; and though it was yet vacant, Ben had a vision of a bonny 
young orphan lass in it, and this vision made it the pleasantest 
kind of bbject to look at. 

On the Saturday afternoon, following his own occupation, he 
called for Nelly Lewthwaite, and took her for a long walk over 
Aske Common. When her feet began to weary, and he saw 
that she was tired and hungry, he led her to his house, and said 
as he pointed it out, “ Come thy ways in, and let my house- 
keeper give thee a cup o’ tea. She was making cheese-cakes 
when I left, and they smelled good enough to make a body 
hungry. Come, Nelly, will ta?” 

“ Would ta like me to come in a bit?” 

“ What is ta teasing me for ? Thou knows I would like noth- 
ing better.” 

“ Then I’ll hev a cup o’ tea and some cheese-cakes. I’m as 
fond as a child o’ them, and I’m hungry, too.” 

“ Why, thou isn’t much more than a child. So come thy 


ben holden’s marriage. 


163 


ways in, and eat as many as iver thou can. I hev just bought 
t’ house, and I’d like some woman like thee to tell me if it is 
furnished as it ought to be.” 

The house-keeper received Nelly a little stiffly. She had a 
shrewd idea as to Ben’s intentions, and yet she felt that there 
was nothing to be gained by opposing them. So she took Nelly 
up-stairs to remove her bonnet, and made her notice the fine 
blue and crimson damasks of which the furnishings of the best 
rooms were composed; the bright chintzes of the others; the 
soft thick carpets and rugs; the ruffled pillow-shams and the 
dressed toilet-tables ; and all these things filled Nelly’s young 
heart with astonishment and longing. 

But she forgot even these splendors when she was introduced 
to the parlor, with its fine lace curtains and blue velvet uphol- 
stery. And the table was set with gilded china, and fine dam- 
ask, and real silver forks; and for the first time Nelly realized 
how much better veal pies and raspberry tarts and cheese-cakes 
may taste with such accessaries. It was a wonderful meal to 
her. She was yet young enough to be delightfully hungry, 
and honest enough to enjoy with childlike gusto the good things 
her lover had provided. 

After tea was over, Ben sat down for his smoke ; and while 
the house-keeper removed the china, and “ tidied up ” after the 
little feasts Nelly sat opposite him, in the rocking-chair, her 
curly brown head lying comfortably and coquettishly among 
the blue satin trimmings. Ben thought it the very prettiest 
object he had ever looked at in all his life, and as Nelly chat- 
tered away about her past life, and he smoked, a sense of some- 
thing. serenely, sweetly, deliciously happy seemed to fill the 
room, and made him loath to speak or move. 

But he felt that this hour was his opportunity, and that he 
must not lose it. In a moment’s pause, as Nelly rocked softly 
backward and forward, and appeared to be as lost in thought 
as himself, Ben stooped forward and touched her hand. “ Nelly, 
my dear,” he said, “ what does ta think of t’ house ?” 

“ It’s a beautiful house. I niver saw a house that was half 


164 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


as fine as this is. Even t’ kitchen is perfect. There’s nowt at 
all wanting in it ; only if ta lied a nicer house-keeper.” 

“Ay, I want a nicer house-keeper; thou is just right about that.” 

“ For I like thy teas, and I’d like to come again ; but I could 
see she didn’t think much o’ me, and I didn’t think much o’ 
her.” 

“Thou can send her packing to-morrow if ta likes to do so, 
Nelly. This house is thine, and so is iverything in it, if ta like 
to hev it and keep it.” 

“ Is ta asking me to marry thee, Ben ?” 

“That is what I mean, Nelly. Thou will hev to take me 
with t’ house. Will I be varry hard to take ?” 

“ Nay, I don’t think thou will. Nobody was iver so good to 
me as thou hes been. I couldn’t help liking thee, even if I tried 
to, and I’m none going to try — now and Nelly smiled be- 
witchingly and put her hands in Ben’s. And then Ben took 
her in his arms, and sealed her promise with a kiss. 

It is quite characteristic of late lovers that they love extrava- 
gantly and impatiently. Ben was for being married the next 
day. “I am ready,” he said, “ and t’ house is ready, and what’s 
to hinder, dear lass?” lie asked. “I am not ready,” answered 
Nelly, “not quite.” “It is such a busy time,” pleaded Ben. 
Nelly said “ they could wait till business was slack.” Ben had 
found out “that he did not like his house-keeper.” Nelly said 
“ he could easily get another.” “ He was so lonely.” Nelly 
asked why he had never found that out before? Then at last 
the truth came out. Nelly would not be married without a 
wedding-dress. That was an objection Ben did not understand 
very well, and did not know how to oppose. He tried to per- 
suade Nelly “ no dress could make her look prettier than the 
one she had on but she answered, with a bewitching little 
nod, “ Wait and see.” So that night' Ben got, quite uncon- 
sciously, his first lesson in marital obedience. He was obliged 
to wait, not a day, nor a week, but a whole month — a month 
during which, he admitted to Jonas Shuttleworth, “the world 
seemed upside down to him.” 


ben holden’s marriage. 


165 


Shuttle worth laughed. Old as he was, he had not quite out- 
grown some youthful sympathies, and he took Ben’s proposed 
marriage in a way Ben had hardly expected. 

“ There’s two things I like about thy wedding, Ben,” he said, 
“ one is — thou hast built thy nest before thou went a-rnating. 
Second is — thou hes chosen a bird of thy own feather. Bless 
thee, lad ! Marrying is easy enough, it is house-keeping that’s 
hard; and thou would hev found it partic’larly hard if ta had 
gone after a fine lady to do it for thee.” 

At length the wonderful day — Ben’s wedding-day — arrived. 
The ceremony was to be performed on Sunday morning, and 
Ben was to wait in the chapel the arrival of his bride. Ho 
managed somehow to get through his Sunday-school duties; 
and he listened with a kind of far-away sense to the prelimi- 
nary services. Then, just before the sermon, the bride, attended 
by Sarah Benson and a little crowd of her acquaintances, en- 
tered. She had on a white muslin gown, and a little bonnet 
covered with orange-blossoms, and a white tulle veil ; and Ben 
had never been before, and never would be again, at once so 
proud and so ashamed as when he joined her at the commun- 
ion rails. 

Some days before the marriage Nelly had shown him her 
white dress, and he had thought it very simple and suitable ; 
but the tulle veil and the orange-blossoms took him quite by 
surprise. He told himself that as soon as he got Nelly home 
he would say a few words to her about them ; but somehow he 
could not say them, and, having let this opportunity pass for 
asserting his own views and opinions, he never since has had 
another. In fact, very shortly after his marriage be began to 
see the superiority of Nelly’s opinions, until he eventually came 
to consider her the one perfect piece of feminine workmanship 
that the Creator had achieved. 

Sarah had taken the greatest pleasure in Ben and Nelly’s 
wedding, and it was to her deft fingers Nelly owed the beauty 
and fitness of her marriage garments ; for she thoroughly ap- 
proved Ben’s choice, knowing that there were far more chances 


166 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


for his happiness with a little lass so young and simple that 
submission to her pleasure was no more humiliating than sub- 
mission to the whims of a child, than there would have been 
had he united himself to some discreet, experienced woman, 
whom he must have met on equal grounds, and whose opposi- 
tion to his will would have been a serious offence. 

At this time Sarah was very happy. True, she heard next 
to nothing of Jonathan, for as everything is known in a mill 
village, it had been thought best to deny themselves the pleas- 
ure of a correspondence, from which many unjust and unkind 
suspicions might arise. But she trusted entirely in her lover ; 
and Jonathan’s heart was firmly placed on her. Also, the let- 
ters which came from Steve were more and more encouraging ; 
and the promises they contained had received frequent em- 
phatic redemptions in cash — a very literal and unromantic, but 
yet a very certain and satisfactory evidence of his well-doing. 

One night in the beginning of December Sarah was coming 
from the mill. It was a clear, frosty night, and she saw the 
bright blaze of the cottage fire glinting cheerfully through the 
darkness. She was thinking of Steve — thinking of him toss- 
ing on the stormy Atlantic, and yet thinking of him with a 
glad and grateful heart. Last year at that very time they had 
been in such poverty and anxiety. Steve’s life then seemed to 
be altogether waste material. He had almost slipped beyond 
even her ever -green hope. Oh, how good God had been to 
him ! When every one else’s love and patience had been worn 
out, God’s was still fresh. “ His loving-kindness faileth not ” — 
the words were on her lips when the village postman touched her. 

“ Here’s a letter for thy folks, Sarah— an American letter. 
Happen there’ll be good news in it.” 

“ Happen there will, Joe. Good news comes to them as 
look and hope for it ; and our Joyce says she has hed a feeling 
like it.” She toot the letter and hurried home, and gave it 
into Joyce’s hand with a kiss. In a few moments she heard 
Joyce calling her in an excited manner, and she hurried down- 
stairs. 


ben holden’s marriage. 


167 


“ Look thee here, Sarah. I hev gotten a post-office order 
for £20 ! For £20, Sarah ! Did ta iver hear of t’ like? But 
that’s nowt to t’ rest. Steve will be in Liverpool about the 
20th of this month, and he says we are all to be there — me 
and t’ childer — and he hes a home in New York ready for us, 
and we are going, Sarah. Oh, my ! Going away from all t’ 
bad memories of cold and hunger and sorrow ! And he’s quar- 
termaster of t’ Avion , Sarah ! Oh, my ! oh, my ! I niver, 
niver hoped for such a joy as this! Oh, my ! oh, my !” and 
Joyce walked rapidly about the kitchen, with Steve’s letter in 
one hand and the money -order in the other, far too much ex- 
cited to talk sensibly for some time about the good news that 
had come to her. 

Sarah kissed her heartily again. “ Try and settle thysen a 
bit, Joyce,” she pleaded ; “ there’s a deal for thee to look after. 
Warm, decent clothing to get, and t’ furniture to sell, and 
many a thing that thou won’t want to sell to be packed up. 
Thou will hev to be busy night and day, I’ll warrant.” 

“And thou will hev to stop from t’ mill and help me, for 
I’m that flustered I don’t know what I am doing. I’ll hev to 
rely on thee, Sarah ; but it is t’ last time, lass — it is t’ last 
time !” 

Very soon the news spread through the village, and it lost 
nothing in the spreading. Steve was now as much praised as 
a year ago he had been condemned. His old mates found out 
that they had always thought well of Steve, and remembered, 
as most of them could do, small acts of kindness he had done 
them. They called upon Joyce with congratulations, and sent 
many a pleasant message to her husband, so that Joyce’s last 
days in her native village were the proudest and happiest days 
of her life. 

On the 19th she left fpr Liverpool, and Sarah went with her, 
for there were half a dozen boxes as well as the children to care 
for, and Joyce had, in an excessive degree, the restless, fearful, 
fussy temper which makes travelling a terror to such women. 
However, in spite of Joyce’s convictions that every one wanted 


1G8 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


to steal her boxes, and that they were certainly on the wrong 
road, Liverpool was safely reached. The Avion was in port, 
and though Steve was very busy, the captain managed to spare 
him long enough to bring his family on board. It was a joy- 
ful meeting, and Sarah was amazed to see her brother. The 
free, open-air life had developed him physically, as well as men- 
tally and morally. He was brown and merry and strong, and 
full of fun. 

“ Oh, my dear, dear lad,” she cried, “ but I am glad to see 
thee ! Why, thou isn’t t’ same Steve at all !” 

“ Mebbe I’m not, Sarah ; but I am t’ right Steve now. I am 
t’ Steve that God and Nature meant me to be. Why, Joyce 
and Sarah, lasses, I am t’ quartermaster already ; and some day 
I’ll sail my own ship to every port I hev read and dreamed 
about. See if I don’t !” 

Sarah fully believed him. She was standing by his side on 
the deck of the A?'ion } and thinking how handsome he looked 
in his blue sailor dress, and how bright and purpose-like were 
all his ways. Half an hour afterwards she bid him “ Farewell !” 
but it was a farewell full of hope and satisfaction. She had a 
positive conviction of his future success, and when she turned 
away from the dock, she saw through happy tears the quarter- 
master of the Avion holding the baby shoulder-high for her last 
look, and Joyce and Charlotta Victoria and little Billy standing 
beside him. 

And ere we bid farewell to Steve, we must say this thing of 
him — he has amply redeemed all his promises; and there is 
not to-day in all the merchant-service a safer, bolder, or more 
trusted captain than Stephen Benson. Also, so many of his 
own dreams have been realized. He has sailed his ship to 
Indian seas and Mediterranean cities, and to tropical South 
American harbors ; and found time, without neglecting his le- 
gitimate business, to make a good many interesting observa- 
tions on animal and vegetable life, and to collect all kinds of 
beautiful and singular specimens in his pretty home on the 
New Jersey coast. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


ONLY ONE LOVE. 

“ Her tremulous smiles ; her glances’ sweet recall 
Of love. 

****** 

What sweeter than these things, except the thing 
In lacking which all these would lose their sweet — 

The confident heart’s still fervor.” 

It was the day before Christmas, and the mills had been 
dismissed and closed at noon ; but Ben Holden and Jonas 
Shuttlewortli stilllingered in the office, going over some pa- 
pers that the elder man wished to have in complete order before 
the beginning of the year. Ben was an industrious, strict busi- 
ness man, but Shuttleworth’s energy and precision almost wea- 
ried him. 

“ Dost ta niver get tired ?” he asked, looking with a kind of 
wonder at the bright eyes and restless hands of his companion. 

“ I’m niver tired as long as I’m busy, Ben. After I gave up 
business, ten years ago, I used to be weary to death varry often ; 
but since I hev been the ‘Co.’ of Burley’s Mills I hevn’t bed a 
tiresome minute.” 

“ How’s that ?” 

“ Why, ta sees, if a man hes no brains but business brains 
he’s lonesome without business — just as lonesome as a gambler 
without his cards. Surely to goodness thou isn’t tired ?” 

“Not I. But at Christmas-time, when a man hes a home 
and a wife — ” 

“ Oh, I see ! It’s thy wife that is pulling thee from t’ mill. 
I didn’t think thou would iver hev been such a fool about a 

j? 


woman. 


170 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ She is nobbut a child yet, ta sees/’ 

“ Child or not, she is thy master.” 

Ben laughed, and just then there was a ring at the outer gate. 

“That is Jonathan’s ring,” he said. “ I’d know it in a 
thousand. He always pulls t’ bell as if ivery one was dead 
asleep but hiinsen.” But as he was speaking, Ben was hasten- 
ing to the gate, and in a few minutes the two men came back 
together holding each other by the hand, and laughing hearti- 
ly. Jonas Shuttleworth heard them, and he pushed the papers 
into a drawer and locked them up carefully. Then he turned 
to meet his nephew, and though his manner was less effusive 
than Ben’s, its genuine kindness was just as unmistakable. 

“My word,” he said, “ but thou art improved !” and as Jona- 
than came into the brighter light the improvement was very 
evident. Travel and rest had done wonders for him ; he looked 
indeed many years younger than he did when he left home. 

“ And how is t’ squire and his wife, my grandniece ?” asked 
Shuttleworth. 

“ He is very near well, and he will return home as soon as 
t’ cold weather is over. Eleanor and Aske ! why, they are t’ 
happiest couple I iver saw now. Ben,” and he turned towards 
his friend, “ Eleanor is mistress and master both ; and as for 
Aske, either he doesn’t know it, or else he likes it so well that 
he’d rather say nothing against it.” 

“ It’s varry like he knows it, Jonathan, and that he enjoys 
it; and I wouldn’t wonder but what lie’s a deal better and 
happier man as things are now.” 

Jonathan looked at Ben and laughed. 

“ Why, Ben, thou hes changed thy views a bit. Now then, 
ancle, how is all with thee ?” 

“ All is much better than might be, nephew ; and as for t’ 
mill, it is coming on finely. Thy ‘ Co.’ hesn’t been a bad 
partner, and thou will see that.” 

“ I niver expected he would be. And what hes thou been 
doing, Ben ?” 

“ I hev been getting married.” 


ONLY ONE LOYE. 


171 


“ What?” 

“ I hev been getting married.” 

“ Get out wi’ thee !” 

“ I say I hev been getting married.” 

“ I say thou art joking.” 

“Nay, I’m none good at that business. I got me a wife 
varry soon after thou sold t’ house to me.” 

“Niver?” 

“Ay, I did that.” 

“ Well, well, well, it beats all. Thee married ?” 

“For sure, why not? I didn’t want to spoil on thy hands. 
Thou seemed afraid of it.” 

“ But in such a hurry ?” 

“ Ay, I know my own mind pretty well. It doesn’t take me 
five or six years to do my courting. Happen I hev a more per- 
suading way wi’ me than thou hes.” 

“ I can’t get oover it. Thee married ? Who iver did ta sort 
with? Ann Gibson?” 

-s^“ ‘ Ann Gibson !’ ” answered Ben, sarcastically. “ I like t’ 
best and bonniest o’ iverything. If ta is thinking of besting 
me in a wife thou will hev to ride t’ length and t’ breadth of 
England to find one half so bonny, that’s all.” 

“ Thou art nobbut fooling me, Ben.” 

“ Am I, though ? Come home with me and hev a cup o’ 
tea. I’m sure thou needs it, and Mr. Shuttle worth will come, 
too, I’se warrant.” 

“ Ay, I think we can’t do a better thing, Jonathan. I go 
varry often wi’ Ben ; his missis makes a good cup, and it will 
do thee good, right off t’ railway.” 

And as Jonathan wanted to see Sarah that night he thought 
it would be a very good thing to do. He could have his tea, 
wash his face and hands, and Sarah’s house was not a quarter 
of an hour’s walk from Ben’s house. So the mill was locked, 
and the three men went leisurely up the road to Ben’s home, 
Shuttlewortli walking between Jonathan and Ben, and leaning 
upon them. 


172 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


“ What will thy missis say, Ben, at ns coming without notice? 
Women don’t like such ways.” 

“My missis isn’t like t’ main of women in a deal of things. 
See how bright t’ house looks, Jonathan ! It is thy friend’s 
bouse now.” 

“ Ay, and it used to be — Sykes’s. I don’t forget, Ben.” 

“I didn’t think thou did. But it’s good to remind one’s 
self. Blessings are easy things to forget.” ' 

Ben’s house did indeed look bright. In honor of Christ- 
mas there were wreaths of evergreens in all the windows, and 
lights behind them; and in the down-stairs rooms the pleasant, 
ruddy glow of fires; and when the servant opened the door 
there was a feeling of warmth and brightness, and a smell of 
delicacies in preparation that was positively exhilarating. And 
the parlor looked so cosey that Ben was quite proud of it; and 
he touched Nelly’s rocking-chair in such a tender way that 
Jonathan could not but notice how pretty and homelike it 
looked, with her sewing laid across it, and her thimble and 
scissors, and spool of white thread. 

In a few minutes there was a light footstep, and Nelly came 
in, rosy with the heat of the kitchen, and with a little white 
apron on to shield her pretty brown merino dress. She put 
both her hands in Jonas Shuttleworth’s, dropped a courtesy to 
Jonathan, and then went right to Ben, and he took her proudly 
to his heart and kissed her. 

“ Let’s hev a cup o’ tea, missis,” he said, fondly ; and she 
laughed, and answered, “ Why, here it comes, Ben ; and lots 
of spice-bread and Yorkshire pie” — and Jonathan could not 
but wonder at the dainty little woman, and look at Ben in 
such an astonished way that Ben, catching such a look, burst 
out laughing at it. And with this and that they had the mer- 
riest kind of meal — old Jonas Shuttleworth seeming to enjoy it 
better than any one. 

Afterwards Jonathan went up-stairs to bathe his face and 
hands, and Ben followed him. “ Thou art going to see Sarah 
Benson, I’ll warrant ?” 


ONLY ONE LOVE. 


173 


“ Thou hes hit t’ truth, Ben. I shall not be happy till I hev 
seen her ; so there’s no use in going home till I’m satisfied.” 

“Well, Jonathan, I advise thee to get married as fast as iver 
ta can. I wonder thou hes hed so little human nature in thee 
as to put it off so long. A man doesn’t know what happiness 
is till he gets a wife. I don’t expect thou can iver be as happy 
as Nelly and me is ; but if ta comes half-way near it thou will 
do middling well.” 

“Will ta be quiet? My word! but it takes a young cock 
to crow hard ! What does thou know about heving a wife ? 
Thy honey-moon isn’t oover yet.” 

“ It niver will be, Jonathan. Now what does ta think of my 
missis ?” 

“ Wliy-a! I was astonished, I was that! She is a varry 
bonny little lass.” 

“ And as obedient and innocent and loving as a child.” 

“I thought t’ obedience was mainly on thy side. She 
seemed to me to give all t’ orders; and it appeared like as if 
it was thy place to obey them.” 

“ Bless thee ! she knows no better. She doesn’t think 
they are orders — not she.” 

“ lies ta seen Sarah lately ?” 

“ I saw her to-day. She was going to t’ chapel to dress it up 
a bit. It was always Sarah’s work, and there’s few could do it 
like her.” 

“ Was she looking well ?” 

“ Uncommon well. Now, I’ll tell thee some rare good news. 
Joyce and all t’ childer have gone to America.” 

“Now then ! Art ta sure?” 

“ Quite sure. Steve sent them twenty pounds— they hed it 
up to a hundred pounds in t’ village — and Joyce sold t’ furni- 
ture ; and Sarah told me that Steve hed a comfortable home 
for them in New York.” 

“ How did they go ?” 

“ Why, in t’ same vessel Steve sailed in. Sarah went to Liv- 


174 BETWEEN TWO ifovES. 

erpool with them ; if she hedn’t, I don’t think they’d iver hev 
got there. She had iverything to do at t’ last, but she was 
thet happy she niver got tired; although Joyce would tire an 
angel out o’ heaven with her whimwhams and flurries and wor- 
ritin’ ways.” 

“Well, this is good news, Ben! I’m glad it came to me 
from thy lips, old friend. And I’m right glad thou art so hap- 
py thysen. Now I’m going to see Sarah, and if t’ carriage 
comes, don’t let Uncle Shuttleworth wait for me. I’ll happen 
to be a bit late.” 

“ Ay, I think it’s likely. Will ta stay here all night?” 

“ Nay, I won’t ; I’ll walk home. When I hev lied a talk wi’ 
Sarah I won’t mind t’ walk one bit. Is she at t’ old cottage 
yet ?” 

“ Ay, she is. She told me she would bide until t’ new-year.” 

In fact, Sarah had gone back to her old home at the begin- 
ning of Joyce’s troubles ; and after bidding Steve and his fam- 
ily “ good-by ” in Liverpool, she returned to the room she had 
occupied in it. For the cottage had a certain plaoe in her heart ; 
her earliest and tenderest memories were linked with its small 
rooms, and she wished to leave them as spotless as lime and 
soap and labor could make them. 

Two days she spent in this work, but the day before Christ- 
mas she had given for many a year to decorating the chapel 
for the festival. Last Christmas she had been in too great 
poverty and anxiety to undertake it, and therefore she was the 
more eager to make up this year what had been lacking of her 
service. So from morning to night she was busy in the chapel, 
and she was just arranging the last cluster of berries when she 
heard some one call her. 

“ Sarah !” 

The voice was a strong, cheery one, and her soul knew its 
faintest echo. She made no pretence of not hearing it, of not 
knowing it, but answered at once, “ I am here, master.” 

She was standing by the communion rail when he joined 


0&LY ONE LOVE. 


175 


her, and he said, “ Thou art just where I want thee to be, my 
dear, dear lass. Sarah, I hev t’ license in my pocket, and t’ 
marriage-ring, too, and I saw t’ preacher as I came here, and he 
says he’ll wed us to-morrow morning. Will ta come home to- 
morrow ?” 

“ My dear lad, now I’ll do whativer thou wants me to do. I 
hev no duty to put before my love for thee now.” 

Then they sat down together in Jonathan’s pew — at last, at 
last, each heart able to give perfect love and perfect confidence 
to the other. 

“ And thou art all mine now, Sarah ?” 

“I am all thine, Jonathan. My heart hes ached for many 
a year between Steve and thee; but I hev done my last duty 
to Steve. He needs me no more, thank God ! and now I can 
heartily come to thee. There is no other love between me and 
thee now.” 

And Jonathan said, “ Thank God !” But his voice was very 
low, and he could hardly speak for emotion, and for a few mo- 
ments both were silent for very happiness. 

Then Sarah told all about Steve; and Jonathan spoke of the 
last Christrnas-eve, and of what peace and prosperity had fol- 
lowed the good deed done on it. And they sat so long that 
the chapel-keeper looked in disapprovingly several times, but at 
last went home happy with a sovereign in his pocket, and so 
much gratitude to Jonathan in his heart that he fully resolved 
not to tell his wife what he suspected — a resolution that, it is 
needless to say, he broke within an hour. 

The next morning there was the usual Christmas service in 
the chapel; and, after it, Jonathan and his uncle, Jonas Shut- 
tieworth, Ben Holden and his wife, and the preacher’s wife and 
Sarah Benson, came quietly up to the communion rails. The 
movement was absolutely unexpected; but there was a pro- 
found interest and curiosity, and no one in the congregation 
moved until Jonathan, radiant with joy, turned to them with 
his wife upon his arm. 


BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 


176 

Then they crowded round him with their good wishes and 
their congratulations ; and so, amid the smiley and blessings of 
all who knew them, he put Sarah into his carriage and drove 
her away to his home, the happiest man in England that 
Christmas-day. 


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